


Indigo

by Squid_Ink



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain Marvel (Marvel Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 3 Doors Down, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Carol's origins is a hybrid of the comics and the movie - heavily using the comics, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Daredevil is much more comics accurate than the MCU Netflix, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft quote, Hallelujah (Pentatonix cover), Here Without You, Idiots in Love, Let Her Go - Passanger, Mutual Pining, My Indigo, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, POV Alternating, Partners to Lovers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Romanogers is the ship being focused on, Slow Burn, Though he keeps the Netflix outfit, almost, canon divergence - Captain Marvel (movie), idiots to lovers, literary fanfic, not Captain Marvel (movie) compliant, not Daredevil (TV) compliant, other ships are background/minor, romanogers is the main ship, romantic fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-21 17:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 187,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squid_Ink/pseuds/Squid_Ink
Summary: It has been six months since SHIELD was exposed as HYDRA. Six months since Natasha last saw Steve in a graveyard in DC. For Natasha it's unclear what she and Steve are: friends, lovers, friends with benefits. But what she does know is that she and Steve would do anything for each other, no matter what. And that's something worth cultivating in her opinion. Better to be a maybe than nothing at all.
Relationships: Carol Danvers & Natasha Romanov, Carol Danvers/Thor, Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 287
Kudos: 381





	1. It's Been A While

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Never Be the Same](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21688174) by [NatRogers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatRogers/pseuds/NatRogers). 
  * Inspired by [Steve's Anatomy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233839) by [mylifeisloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifeisloki/pseuds/mylifeisloki). 



> Constructive Criticism Guideline
> 
> Critique Guideline:  
> 1\. Summarize - tell me what happened in your own words  
> 2\. Analyze - how was the chapter put together, interactions between characters, where you think this is going to go  
> 3\. Critique - what did and did not work  
> 4\. Suggestions - what would you like to see, improvements

In hindsight, blaming poor life choices on too many martinis wasn't the wisest of solutions. Not when said poor life choice was made before imbibing any ounce of vodka. Still, Natasha felt confident that after this night was over and she was curled up in bed nursing a hangover, blaming everything on the martinis would be the go-to answer. The day had dawned with a sense of impending dread: as it always did whenever Tony threw a party in honor of a holiday, be it Halloween or Christmas or New Year's. Parties meant mingling, and mingling meant wearing various masks in order to hide herself and please people. Though trained in the art of deception since childhood, Natasha found it exhausting in frivolous social settings like Tony's parties.

She hadn't wanted to get out of bed. If — she reasoned — stayed in bed, then the day would pass her by without a care as if October 31, 2014 had never happened. Alas, her phone had thwarted all plans of staying in bed and avoiding the day entirely. Grumbling, she had grabbed her phone with the intent of ignoring the call — whomever was calling her could go to hell and to her voicemail box (which was full and no longer accepting more messages) — until she saw the picture bouncing in the middle of the screen and the name _Steve Rogers_ on top. For a moment time had come to a halt, the world had hung still and all she was able to think about was that it was _him_. He was calling her. The dryness in her mouth made her tongue heavy and useless. Butterflies tumbled in her stomach and an uncharacteristic indecision wrapped its icy fingers around her gut. The phone vibrated again in her hand, the screen flaring into a brighter life. Swallowing — it did little to ease the dryness in her throat — she swiped up, answering the call.

After six months of not hearing from Steve, their phone call was queerly brief. Steve was back in the States, staying in DC with plans to make it to New York within the week. He felt the need to touch bases with her after what happened with Shield. Natasha had agreed though a myriad of questions tumbled around her mind: why now? Why didn't you call sooner? Why didn't you ask me to stay? Why didn't you ask me to come with you? Those questions had died on her tongue as their stilted conversation faltered into an awkward pause.

And that's when she said it. When she uttered the simple phrase that sent the events of the rest of the day in motion, why she was sitting at the chic bar in communal space of the Avengers Tower, guzzling martinis in hope she could drink enough that would actually take some time for the Red Room's serum coursing through her veins to metabolize the alcohol and she would actually get drunk. Bobby Pickett's _Monster Mash_ began to pound in her head, the flashing lights synchronized to the song's beat hurt her eyes. Good, she thought, I'm starting to get drunk. Blaming too many martinis was easier than realizing her own foolishness. Love was for children.

Still, it galled her that he hadn't called her in six fucking months. Six months since Shield fell — or more aptly — since she and Steve exposed it as Hydra and brought it crashing down in a burning heap — literally. The news still liked to replay footage of the next generation helicarriers firing at each other before crashing into the Potomac. It had been the news' new favorite past time: blaming Captain America and Black Widow for the ills of the country.

The criticism didn't bother her. Being called cold, heartless, apathetic, a monster; all things she heard before. Having people that don't understand what she did or her past question her heroism — an annoyance as commonplace as a buzzing fly. No. No what bothered her were the things the news networks said about Steve. Questioning his loyalty to the United States, his heroism — hell, even going back to questioning his actions in WWII. Actions he took to ensure they could be born and question him later. "You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain," she muttered, picking up the toothpick that speared three olives from her empty martini glass. With practice skill, she pulled the olives off the little wooden stick with her teeth. It had been six months since she last saw him in the graveyard.

 _I wanted to hear you voice, Tasha._ A frown creased her lips; the green face paint cracking at the corners. Why hadn't he called her Nat? Tasha made her sound dirty, like a cheap Russian whore Tony picked up in Little Ukraine. Though even Matt Murdock — her current boyfriend (even though they haven't seen each other recently) — would sometimes called her Tasha. So why was Steve suddenly using it?

The bartender lifted a brow at her comment and set another martini in front of her. The olives looking suspiciously like blood shot eyeballs suspended in formaldehyde. Trust Tony to make sure the drinks at the bar stuck to the Halloween theme. Groaning, she took a sip, wincing as Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ blared through the speakers. Natasha had to hand it to Stark though — as she looked around the room — he knew how to throw a party. People dressed as classic ghouls and monsters, various sexy versions of occupations they don't perform, and several pop culture characters. Tony had declared the Avengers were doing Justice League or characters from the DC universe. Needless to say, finding a pale green spandex body suit for Poison Ivy was the least of her worries. "There you are," Carol said, weaving through the crowd. She adjusted the circlet on her brow before sitting down. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you mingling?" Carol tapped the bar and the bartender gave her a beer. Natasha watched as Carol twisted the cap off without a care. Kree enhanced super strength definitely came in handy. "Or are you waiting for Matt to show up?" Carol glanced at the door. "You did invite him right?"

A small smile graced her lips. Carol and Steve loved pulling that prank on Tony and Rhodey, jokingly asking them why their beer bottles weren't twist-offs too. "After the fifth sexy fireman asked if I needed him to water my plants, I decided that mingling would end up with legal issues that I just didn't want Pepper to deal with." She shrugged, sipping her martini as she leaned back against the counter. "I did invite Matt, but he said he had other plans for Halloween." Though knowing Matt, he was probably running around Hell's Kitchen in his devil outfit beating up bad guys and trying to keep general order tonight. 

"How long have you two been dating?"

"Since 2010, after the StarkExpo. I was assigned to New York." Matt was a great guy. Dark sense of humor tinge with Catholic cynicism and self-deprecation (most often directed at his blindness). There was a good heart in him, despite the cruelties life had heaped upon him. When they were together, they made an effective and striking couple. Though lately she's come to realize that she and Matt had drifted apart. While they were both married to their jobs — and lives as heroes — Matt was reluctant to leave New York, downright refusing to relocate to DC with her when Fury reassigned her to help Steve adjust to the 21st Century. She even offered to relocate Foggy too, if that was what was holding Matt back. Turned out Matt was one of those people that wouldn't leave New York for love or money, while she never really had any place to call home. Relocating never bothered her, what was one new place compared to the other. They all ended up the same in the end. Matt was born and bred in the concrete jungle of New York, Hell's Kitchen was his backyard. And the time apart made her realize that, as much as she loved Matt and cared about him and wouldn't mind having a life with him, he wasn't the right fit for her. Though why she was concerned about romance to begin with, boggled her mind. Just, another thing to blame on the martinis she supposed. Still, the realization that her relationship with Matt Murdock was most likely over hurt. A bitter painful stabbing in her heart. 

"He's no Steve Rogers, I'll give you that," Carol said, nudging her. She scowled, privately admitting that — yes, yes, that was definitely a part of why she and Matt grew apart. Not that Matt didn't see the good in her — he did — but he tried to fix her — it was probably his Catholicism coming into play. As if the evil of her past was something broken within her. Steve accepted the red in her ledger and never tried to erase it. 

She hummed, twirling the toothpick around in the glass. "You and Thor making a striking couple," she said, steering the conversation away from her convoluted love life. 

Carol laughed. "Superman and Wonder Woman, huh? Don't exactly see Thor as Superman" — Carol took a sip of her beer, leaning against the counter — "that's more Steve."

"Well, Thor is an alien."

"Touché." Carol nodded in the direction of the God of Thunder, his black wig askew as he danced with a pretty brunette bimbo. Natasha watched Carol grip her bottle tighter. "I'm not exactly an Amazon though."

"Squeeze that bottle any harder and you may be strong like one." Natasha nodded to the bottle. Carol frowned. "If it bothers you so much, go over and cut in."

"I'm not bothered," the other woman said, tucking some blond hair back beneath the black wig she wore. "Not bothered at all." She nudged Natasha's leg. "You on the other hand, have been drinking martinis as if they are going out of fashion. What's up?" Carol smirked, nudging her. "Is it because there's still radio silence from Steve?"

Natasha gave Carol a tight smile, watching the crowd with amusement. If only New York's socialites and businessmen, politicians and various dignitaries, celebrities and sport stars knew that JARVIS was recording everything — it was small wonder most people paid little mind to Tony's eccentric antics — he had a treasure trove of blackmail material with all of his parties. Any other time, the crowd of who's who was the sort she would revel in. Drifting through the currents of conversation as like a river trout, mingling here and there with a pretty ready smile on her lips and secrets in her eyes. Giving Carol a blithe smile, she said: "For your information Danvers, Rogers isn't the be all end all of my problems. I have a life that doesn't revolve around him" — she picked up the toothpick and pulled off one of the eyeball-esque olives, popping it into her mouth — "that being said, nothing is up. I just don't feel like exerting energy in false smiles for fake people." She titled her head, a cute sardonic smile dancing on her lips. 

Carol snorted, taking a swig of her beer to hide an amuse smile. "Rogers has gotten under your skin, I see." The music changed to another Halloween song with the sound of ratting chains in the background. It sent chills down Natasha's spine as the screams of young girls echoed at the edge of her memory. "I just wanted to see how you're doing." Carol brought the bottle back to her lips and took a long swallow. "Before the Kree took me to Hala, my friend Maria and I would go to the bar near the base and sing bad karaoke." A sad smile lingered for a moment on Carol's face.

"How's Maria and Monica?" Natasha asked. "You visited them after the Battle of New York, right?" 

Carol nodded. "They're good, Maria got married to a firefighter named Frank, while I was trying to find Talos and his Skrulls a new home. He's a good man. Really bonded with Monica," Carol said.

"You never told me what happened to Monica's birth father," Natasha said. Carol twirled the bottle in her hand. "You don't have to tell me." 

Carol shook her head. "No. He was a fighter pilot. Died in a training accident. Didn't even know Maria was pregnant. Maria's parents didn't approve of her being in the Air Force, they weren't too happy when she was unmarried and pregnant. Maria made an effort to repair the bridges with them for Monica's sake."

"Maria and Monica are lucky to have you in their lives," Natasha said. 

"Thanks" — Carol smiled — "We should do karaoke, Nat. Just you and me, go find a karaoke bar and just let loose for the night."

The idea of singing popular songs that she didn't like in front of strangers wasn't appealing to her in the least. The martini beckoned her as she swirled it around. "I don't sing, Carol." With that said, she down the rest of her martini.

"Oh, c'mon! Neither do I, but it's fun. Get a few beers in you, get buzzed, doesn't matter if you can sing or not after that." Carol nudged her. "Be a girls' night out thing. We can invite Pepper and Hill if you feel _that_ insecure about your vocal abilities." 

A chuckle escaped her. "I'm a ballerina not a soprano," she said. 

"Betcha you could be good at both." 

Sometimes Carol's bluntness was a refreshing change of pace. "Fair enough." It was strange that she and Carol became fast friends; it was nice having another woman to talk to about the superhero life nonetheless. Clint was still her closest friend, but he was silent and reserve, until someone earned his trust did he opened up with a dry witty sarcasm. Carol was bold and open about her feelings, though she hid her more painful memories behind a cool mask. The bartender set another martini in by her. Picking it up she clinked the rim against Carol's beer bottle. "Diva power."

"Damn straight." Carol grinned, a spark in her eyes. "Diva power." They sat in comfortable silence for a while, commenting on the costumes —how awful the so-called 'sexy' costumes are, how creative some of the people got with the classic spooks and pop culture icons — and Natasha felt relaxed, her cares from earlier miles away. They watched Stark — dressed as Batman — flit from one big wig to another, schmoozing them with easy confidence. "You can tell me, Nat, about what's bothering you."

The thought of confiding in Carol sent a cold bolt right to her gut; she took a large swallow of her martini, holding the cold liquid in her mouth before swallowing. "Oh?"

"Mmhmm." Carol sipped her beer, frowning as she shook it only to notice she had reached the bottom. She set it on the counter. The bartender quickly replaced it with a fresh frosted bottle. A small crowd had gathered a little off center, Thor guffawing as people tried to lift his hammer. Businessmen drunkenly placing bets with each other to see who could lift it.

Natasha licked her lips, tasting the sharp tang of vermouth. _I wanted to hear your voice, Tasha. I missed talking to you._

Then why didn't you call me for six months? She should have said that. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't say it. Instead she had said she was glad to hear from him, which prompted a sigh from him — almost as if there was more, he wanted to say but didn't. Funny, how pregnant silence could be with things unsaid. "Rogers called me this morning."

"And?"

"And what?" Natasha watched as Tony cracked a joke, the gaggle of beefy linebackers falling into uproarious laughter and making everyone that didn't get it feel left out. She took another sip of her martini. "He wanted to tell me he was back and that he'll be staying in DC for a spell and then coming back to New York."

Carol narrowed her eyes. "You're hiding something."

The statement sent her brows into her hairline. "Wow, Danvers," she said coolly, "what made you suddenly realize that I'm hiding something?"

"Don't bullshit me, Romanoff," Carol said, pointing a finger at her. "You and Rogers haven't spoken for six months and you want me to believe you two talked about his immediate plans? Fuck you."

Narrowing her eyes, Natasha tossed back the rest of her martini and rolled her shoulders. "I don't have to divulge every minutia of my life with you, Carol" — she waved her hand at the bartender, who shrugged and took her empty glass and placed it in the sink full of soapy water — "no need to be snitty."

"I'm only snitty" — Carol took a swig of her beer — "because I see what you aren't admitting to yourself."

She rolled her eyes, looking at her friend. "Pray tell," she said, "what am I not admitting to myself?"

Carol smirked, hooding her eyes in a devious manner. "You know." Natasha's frowned deepened. "The graveyard." Carol deadpanned. "You had a golden opportunity. He was waiting for you take it to the next level and you left him hanging." She finished off her beer. "You just walked away. I don't get it."

Back to this again, huh? She thought as she ran a hand through her hair. The face paint was starting to bother her. The memory of the late April sun on her skin still fresh in her mind, how it made his hair appear like spun gold, muted in the shade of the tree. Was Carol, right? Was he waiting for her to make a move, to take this — whatever it is they had — beyond a deep friendship? Probably not. Truth be told, she felt like she was reading too much into it (and so was Carol). After all, she did tell him to call Sharon — as a favor to her — and he always followed up on his favors owed.

"Ladies!" Tony sashayed over to them, black cape billowing dramatically in his wake. "Enjoying the party?"

"I was before you showed up," Carol muttered, rolling her eyes. Tony shot her a scowl.

"Oh yes," she said, drawing Tony's attention away from Carol, "it's riveting. How did you manage to shove this much egotism into one space with room to spare for yours is truly a feat." She clapped mockingly. "Bravo. I'm stunned."

Tony frowned at them as he took a seat. "You know Natalie, you have a sharp tongue."

"And a sharper wit," she said, leaning in close. The scent of booze wafted off Tony in a heady wave; she wrinkled her nose. "Careful Stark, don't wanna get cut now do you?"

He laughed uneasily, glancing about the room. Pepper — dressed as Catwoman — was talking to Maria Hill — who was dressed as the Aztec warrior goddess Itzpapalotl. "Where's Rogers? Don't think he'd take too kindly to you flirting with me." A cheer went up somewhere among the crowd of party-goers, she wasn't sure what they were cheering about. Pursing her lips, she put her hand on Tony's thigh, a predatory glint sparkling in her eyes.

"What makes you think Rogers would be upset with me flirting with you?" she cooed, hooding her eyes and leaning in close. Carol choked on her drink, Tony audibly gulped. "I'm my own woman, he has no control over me."

"Uh-huh," he said, "it's just" — he plucked her hand off his thigh as if she was coated in poison — "you two were awfully chummy at Shield or should I say Hydra. So, I figured you two were…" he trailed off, looking at anything other than her. Pepper and Maria glanced over at them but that was the only acknowledgement the other two women gave them.

Narrowing her eyes, she straightened in her seat. "He and I were what?" she asked, the words coming out in a sharp hiss. Tony didn't say anything and cowered beneath her scowl. "Stark."

"Just that you and him, were well…" he shrugged, gesticulating with one hand towards the crowd as if that explained what he refused to say. "You know…" 

"No, I don't know."

Tony sighed, taking the bat mask off his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, it's rather obvious. Unless, I'm reading everything wrong and it's really you and Barton—"

"Barton and I are friends," she said. "Get your head outta the gutter, Stark. Nothing is going on between me and Rogers or me and anyone." She slipped off the stool, wobbling a bit on unsteady legs. Definitely blaming everything on the martinis now. The night was starting to get to her, people pressuring her into a corner she didn't want to get backed into. Head spinning, she looked around trying to locate the exit, but everything was a twilit blur with the synthetic bass vibrating beneath her brain, rattling her already aching skull.

"You gonna be okay?" Tony asked, placing a steadying hand on her arm. She groaned, not sure if she should nod or shake her head. Carol set her beer down and hopped off her stool. "You got her Danvers?"

"Yeah, I'll get her to her suite," Carol said. Natasha sighed, leaning against Carol's strong hands. "C'mon Romanoff, let's get you off to bed." She nudged her with her knee and together they wove through the crowd. Natasha pressed a hand to her forehead — the music made her head feel like it was having its own personal earthquake; walking was a chore with her feet not wanting to obey her.

_We went to Moscow._

_Yeah?_

_Thought of you, dreamt of you._

_Oh._

_Didn't call that nurse._

_Why?_

_Cause she wasn't you._

Natasha frowned. "She wasn't me," she said, her voice soft. 

"Who wasn't you?" Carol asked, as they slipped into the hallway that lead to the elevator. The music felt distant and far away now, the lights of Manhattan bright yellows and oranges, neon greens and blues and reds. An endless sea of color against the black still night. An airplane flew overhead — its red and green wing lights flashing, the windows of Avengers tower thick enough that she couldn't hear the drone of the engines. 

"The nurse," she frowned. Had he said that or was she misremembering their unusual conversation from this morning? She knew he wore his heart on the sleeve (to an extent, even Steve Rogers wasn't stupid enough to lay his emotions completely bare for all the world to see). "Carol?" Natasha asked, once they got into the elevator. Carol made a humming sound. "What's it like to be in love?" A frown creased her lips; it wasn't the question she wanted to ask, but it was the question that came out. "Do you know what it feels like?" The elevator started to descend, a soft mechanical sound. The lights of New York scintillating like too close stars all around them.

A distant look flashed for a moment in Carol's eyes, as if she was remembering something from a lifetime ago. "No," Carol said, as the elevator stopped at the floor of her suite. "I don't." The doors hissed open, the hallway dark, save for the LED runner lights at the edges of the floor. Natasha stepped out, world spinning and his voice ringing in her head.

 _God Almighty, I missed you Tasha._ "Oh." The wall was cool beneath her palm, the door to her suite just a few paces from the elevator. "Thought you might." She looked away. This was why she never liked getting drunk. It tore down her carefully constructed walls much too easily and she divulged secrets to people — secrets, fears and worries, she rather keep close to her chest. "Never mind then." Nodding more to herself, she turned and began to stumble her way to her door.

"Bit of advice," Carol called after her. She paused, turning slightly. "If I had Mr. Hunkalicious staring at me wanting more than a peck on the cheek you bet, I would give him a kiss."

Natasha scrunched her face up. "Did you just refer to Steve" — there, she said his name. It tasted sweet on her tongue, pleasant in her mouth, heady as ambrosia from Olympus — "as Mr. Hunkalicious?" she asked. Carol laughed, closing the distance between them. "Why would you call him that?" she added.

"I call it like I see it," she said, helping her the rest of the way to her room. "I mean, that suit he was wearing during the Battle of New York was horrid, but it showed off his ass." Carol gave her a wink.

Natasha hummed, remembering one mission back in January up in the Finnish Lapland. Steve had fallen through a weak patch of ice and she had hauled his heavy ass to the safehouse — trekking through thigh high snowdrifts no less; the northern lights a ribbon of color overhead — and had to strip him to his boxers to keep him warm. "He has a fine ass," she mumbled. Carol giggled. "Round like a peach and tight as a drum." And perfectly sculpted thighs, big and powerful.

"See," Carol teased, nudging her as the door to her suite hissed open. The room was dim, the orange glow of the city's lights blocked out by the specialized curtains over the windows that blocked out the majority of the light but allowed a person to view the exterior. Carol set her on the bed. "You know what I think?" she flipped on the desk lamp to illuminate the room in a soft golden glow. She hummed, looking at her friend. "I think he has a huge dick." She held up her index fingers to indicate the hypothesized size of Steve's penis. "Long, thick and pink."

The green face paint and years of training in the Red Room kept the blush hidden. That same mission, she and Steve had fallen asleep together — it was more out of necessity to keep him warm — and when she had woken up, she was surprised by what she felt poking her in the stomach. The mortified blush on Steve's face when she roused him hid the darker smolder of desire in his blue eyes. And it was that desire in his eyes that kept her mind drifting back to that particular memory in the dark of night, when her hands wandered down her flat stomach to the silken folds between her legs. Did he want her? Had he always wanted her? Or was she being foolish and reading too much into it?

It wasn't like she was inexperience with men desiring her — on a purely physical level. Being sexually objectified had been her bread and butter all her life, it was something she was skilled at manipulating and exploiting. Sex was a meaningless bodily function yet… yet in that split second before his awkward apology tumbled from his lips, Natasha felt that sex with Steve could maybe mean something beyond a physical act. That maybe it could be an act of love, a physical manifestation of their deeper feelings. In hindsight, she knew it to be a falsehood. Sex was sex. There was nothing deeper beyond it. At the end of the day it was just fucking.

Natasha shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. "Not sure if that's what you imagine Steve's dick to be like or what you hope Thor's dick actually is," she said. If Carol was going to give her shit about her thing — can she call it a thing? Is it even a thing? Or is everyone reading too much into her subtle body language when it came to Steve Rogers — with Steve, then she certainly can dish out shit when it came to Carol and her obvious crush on Thor.

Even in the dim light, Natasha saw the splash of pink on Carol's cheeks. "Thor and I" — Carol huffed, crossing her arms over her chest — "don't even go there Romanoff. This is about you and Rogers." Carol lifted her chin in a haughty manner. "Besides, we both know Thor is better endowed than Rogers ever will be."

"Oh my God, Danvers, why?" she asked. It had gotten to the point where she needed to go to bed. If Carol stayed any longer, she may just spill the beans and tell her that she was absolutely right: Steve did — at least it felt like he did — have a huge dick. Thor was — in Natasha opinion — inferior in the department of masculine endowment. "Wait have you slept with Thor?" 

Carol shrugged, standing up. "Gotcha thinking about it now, don't I?" Natasha scowled; Carol grinned. "So, you have to find out if he does."

"Go away," she said, flopping onto her back. Carol laughed. "Goodnight Carol."

"Night, Nat," she said, and Natasha heard her leave, before rolling over and turning the light off. Silence pressed in around her only to be broken by the distant muted wail of a siren. New York didn't sleep, the city kept going even into the wee hours of the morning. A sigh escaped her. She stood up, padding her unsteady way to the window. Lights of every color shown below, cars — only a few compared to how many packed the lanes during the day — zipped along. The city lights made her think of Steve, how he'd sit by the window and sketch the cityscape, the way his long and slender fingers held a pencil, how his brow furrowed in concentration, and his hair stood up from him running his hand through it so often due to his frustration at not being able to get something just right. The lights made her wonder if he was okay, and what he was doing for Halloween. He had once mentioned he liked classic monster movies from the 30s. How he and Bucky huddled around the radio during 1938 to listen to the reading of H.G. Wells' _War of the Worlds_ and how they laughed the next day when the newspapers reported that the Earth was going to be invaded by Martians only to recant that headline by the time the evening paper was printed saying it was a hoax and they apologize for alarming the citizenry.

"Miss Romanoff, the water should be sufficiently hot for a shower," JARVIS said. She smiled, touching the metal divide between the window. Tomorrow was November or maybe it was November already, she didn't know, hadn't seen a clock in a few hours. "Is there anything else?"

"No, that'll be all," she said, walking to her dresser to pull out a pair of pajamas. The AI bid her good night and she returned the sentiment as she entered the chic modern bathroom that was a standard feature for all the resident suites for the Avengers within the tower. Hot steamy water erupted once she twisted the knob, and the shock of it against her skin did little to clear her head. It barely pushed the hazy feeling from her eyes, instead it lulled her into a relaxed state, allowing her to scrub away the make-up and the evidence of tonight's party from her body on autopilot, her mind adrift in a sea of memory: the pair of headstones by the chain linked fence with weeds growing besides them. Despite the harsh Russian cold, she plucked the stubborn weeds from the graves of her parents — ignoring the fact no names or dates had been carved into the lifeless grey stone.

The knob squeaked when she turned the water off. Hair dripping, she shook her head, smiling at the sound of water hitting the walls of the shower. The rug beneath her feet as she stepped out was coarse, the bathroom hot and humid with the mirror fogged over. Swiping her hand across the glass, she frowned when she noticed she didn't get all the green eyeshadow and eyeliner off her eyes. Grumbling, she attacked the offending remains of the cosmetics with a make up remover pad, skin stinging from the astringent chemicals. It had little effect. The last of the water gushed from the shower head, gurgling down the drain, like the sound of the river swallowing the burning remains of the helicarrier.

They had been flying low over the river, ignoring the helicarriers sinking to their watery graves. A part of her — the human part of her — felt bad that the crews on those carriers had to die. The Black Widow part didn't, reasoning that sacrifices had to be made in war; for that was what it was: a shadow war. Thankless, bitter work.

Sam had spotted Steve's body first, but she was unbuckling herself from the seat and throwing off the headset before anyone could stop her. The impact hurt like the bullet she took from the Winter Soldier's rifle a day earlier. In fact, she was pretty sure she pulled the stitches as her shoulder felt damp. All of that didn't matter as she ran along the bank to his prone body. "Don't be dead, don't be dead, please don't be dead." It was a mantra that she repeated as she fell to her knees and rolled Steve onto his back. His skin was bone white, lips a faint blue and blond hair wet and matted against his skull. Tears stung her eyes, constricted her throat as she shakily pressed two fingers to his neck. She kept her eyes on his face, ignoring the horrid red splotches on his thigh and abdomen. His pulse was there, but weak and when she leaned her ear close to his mouth, she could barely hear the wheeze of breath pass from his lips. "I need medical ASAP," she said into the comms on her Widow Bite. "Rogers" — Steve — "is down. Hurt bad. I need medical."

There was a grabbled response and she glanced up at the helicopter that Fury piloted. It angled away to get help, at least she hoped. "Don't you die on me, Rogers," she hissed, starting chest compressions. "We got this far, we survived a missile strike, you survived seventy years frozen in ice, you can survive this!" She tipped his jaw up and pinched his nose as she gave him a breath. "C'mon Steve!" she whispered, repeating the process. "Breathe!" she gave him another breath, his lips clammy against hers.

In reality, she maybe had been giving him CPR for a minute or two. Sirens had been blaring since the attack started, first responders rushing to help anyone trapped inside. Fury had seen her, had gone to get help. Still, it felt like hours as she pressed down on Steve's chest, gave him a breath, pressed down on his chest again. Her hands turned numb and cold, her arms ached with pressing down hard enough to coax his heart into beating on its own. Hair clung to her brow, her lip hurt from biting it so hard. "Don't you die on me, Rogers. Don't you dare die!" I need you, Steve. She gave him another breath, her hand resting on his chest, hoping to feel it rise on its own. Pulling away, she stared at his face, shaking with fear or frustration — she didn't know. This was out of her ability to control, the world unraveling around her as her emotions sparked at her already frayed nerves. It scared her down to her core. If she couldn't control the situation then she couldn't predict responses, and if she couldn't — she closed her eyes, giving herself a little shake. No, she wouldn't go trotting down that rabbit hole.

The shuttering and sudden rise of Steve's chest and his loud gasp for breath alerted her back to the situation at hand. "Steve!" her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. His eyes fluttered open, bright forget-me-not blue; color returned to his lips and cheeks, time stood still as he simply stared at her. If someone had asked her if her hands shook as she took his face in her hands — she would deny it. But they did, and she ran her thumbs along his cheekbones. Alive. Alive. Steve was alive. She would also deny the tears on her cheeks as she whispered, "I don't owe you anymore."

Steve gave a weak sounding laugh, as he closed his eyes. Gently, she maneuvered him until she could pillow his head on her lap. The paramedics arrived moments later in a fanfare of blaring sirens and flashing lights, shouting to hurry up an get to Captain America. She stayed by his side — the eye's calm amongst the storm of activity — clinging to his hand as they lifted him onto the stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance. "Are you family" the wide-eyed paramedic asked. Was she family? Technically, no. She was his friend, partner, Avenger. But not his girlfriend or wife or anything remotely close to being considered kin. For half a heartbeat she wanted to lie and say she was his girlfriend.

"No." She bowed her head, which allowed her to peer at Steve between the bodies of the busy paramedics. There wasn't much to see though, and he wasn't looking for her. "No, I'm not."

"Sorry then, but you can't ride with us," the paramedic said, closing the doors shut. She heard him bang on the side. The sirens screamed into life and the ambulance drove away, bouncing over the uneven terrain. It felt as if they took her heart with them. And it was the beating of her heart — which she acutely felt in her head — that kept her awake right now.

"Party still going on, JARVIS?" she asked, folding the pillow over her head.

"It's winding down, but I shall increase the soundproofing around your bedroom Miss Romanoff," the AI said.

"Thanks," she said, groaning the word out as she wondered for the umpteenth time why did she drink so many fucking martinis? All she wanted was to sleep. Though for a woman like her, sleep was a fickle friend at best, at worse it was a torturous hell of regret and blood and obsidian sharp memories. The nights she didn't dream were the best and she favored them, longing for such nights whenever she closed her eyes. Those nights allowed her to achieve the much-needed rejuvenating rest required. The nights she did (most of the nights if she was frank with herself), she dreamed. Dreams that twisted memories, turning them darker and more sinister than what she remembered; such was the nature of dreams. Other dreams felt like watching a movie of her memories, recalling the mistakes she made, the blood on her hands. It was when she relived the memories that she felt it was better to die as the Black Widow then live as Natasha Romanoff; nothing more than a monster caked in blood. 

For only a monster could have injured Steve so badly. Three gunshots to the belly — he regained consciousness on the operating table, half-way through the surgery to repair the hole in his large intestine and clean up the fecal matter that seeped out — and one to his thigh, barely missing the femoral artery.

The injuries on his face had healed — mostly. A few of the deeper cuts, his broken orbital bone, cracked jaw; those needed more time. It was a miracle he was even alive. The doctors said it was the super soldier serum, healing his injuries almost as soon as he sustained them. Natasha thought it was Steve's sheer stubbornness that kept him alive. The man had cheated death since he was born, after all. Death was probably keeping a tab for Steve, just waiting to cash in on the soul he was owed.

The hospital room was quiet at this hour. The clock on the wall tick-tocking away the seconds and the machines hooked up to Steve provided a counter beat to the clock. The tabloid she flipped through was mindless drivel. Apparently Crimson Jonston had finally broken up with her current boyfriend and only announced that she was dating heartthrob Topher Owens.

There was an article speculating that Carol had been hiding at Area 51 for seventeen years until her miraculous return to catch Tony Stark as he fell from the wormhole in the sky at the Battle of New York. An article about Tony and Thor, but for the most part the magazine was filled with ads. Besides, she was only reading it to give her something to do.

Steve stirred, causing her to look up, hoping he'll wake up. Sam stood vigil during the mornings, while she took the evening shift until the head nurse — a cranky middle age man — told her visiting hours are over. They been at this for three days. Natasha wondered if Steve was in pain. Morphine didn't work on him, and there was nothing stronger they could give him. His hand twitched.

Natasha set her magazine on the little table by his bedside, eyes trained on his fingers. A few heartbeats later, his fingers twitched again. Nobody was around. A nurse passed by in the hall but for the most part they only ever came to check on him during shift changes. The doctors were of the philosophy of letting the serum do its work. She huffed, tugging up his blanket. His hand twitched again. Swallowing, she looked around again, before reassuring herself that nobody would bare witness to Black Widow being tender, and took his hand, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. Much to her surprise, he squeezed back, and his eyes opened. "Steve," she whispered, breath catching in her throat. He didn't say anything, simply groaned in pain, tightening his grip on her hand. She had heard that he woke up half-way through the thawing process — with scientists (probably HYDRA) discussing how'd they harvest samples only to discover he was still alive. The horror he must've felt in those few lucid moments, too frozen to fight back and too confused to understand what was going on.

When Maria told her Steve was unconscious in the ICU, she vowed that someone — either her or Sam — would be there when he woke up. He woke up after seventy years with no familiar face, she wouldn't let that happen to him again. "Hurts," he wheezed, voice raw and weak. That got a smile from her. It showed how effectively they worked as partners that she didn't have to ask. Calmly, she poured him some water, stuck a straw in the cup and coaxed him to take a few sips. He did, but it took a lot out of him.

"I know" — she set the cup down — "but the serum metabolizes any painkillers before they can take effect." Steve only groaned in response. "I'll stay right here, okay," she added. "I won't leave you." She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. Steve didn't say anything, though his face did appear more peaceful. The on coming nurse tried to get her to leave, but when she flat out refused, the young woman had the good sense not to argue with the Black Widow. Instead, she quickly checked Steve's vitals and scurried from the room.

Natasha didn't leave his side, falling asleep in the chair, holding his hand. She jerked awake around eight in the morning. Sam leaning over her, his hand on her shoulder. It took her a moment to realize it was him and she lowered her hand. "Jesus, Sam," she said, rubbing her face, "I could've killed you." Sam grinned cheekily.

"You need to go home, Natasha," Sam said. She shook her head, picking sleep out from the corner of her eyes.

"Promised Steve someone would be here when he wakes up" — I can't leave him alone — "So, can't leave."

"I'll be here. Don't worry. Go home, you look like shit." That got her to smile. "I'll be here, promise."

Yawning, she stood up. "Call me when he wakes up?" she grabbed her jacket and phone, folding the former over her arm. Sam settled into her abandoned chair, pulling out an iPod and portable speaker. He began to thumb through it.

"You'll be the first to know," he assured her. She nodded, looking once more at Steve and left the hospital room. Somehow, she made it home and collapsed on her bed and dreamt she wasn't the monster she knew she was.

No monsters greeted her the next morning, save for the pounding headache indicative of a hangover. Again: why did she drink so many martinis? Groaning she padded to the bathroom and glanced at her sorry reflection. Green eye make-up still in place. Swearing colorfully in Russian, she got into the shower and shivered beneath the cold stream as she waited for the water to warm up. The make up came off easily the second time she scrubbed at it. Running her soapy hands down her body, she traced the scars that marred her porcelain colored skin: the one at her hip from the Winter Soldier, it's twin in her shoulder. The scar on her side from the Yugoslavian — her first kill, she was only eleven years old. _A scar is not a mistake made, Natalia. It's another lesson that you are stronger than whatever gave it to you._ She could still feel the tug of the surgical thread in her side as the Headmistress sutured the gash close. Finally, the pad of her pinkie traced the scar just her groin — a faint white line — a reminder she rather not think about.

The warm water cascading down her body reminded of blood. Warm and salty, a metallic ferric tang upon her tongue. Tchaikovsky soaring in the background as her feet flitted sylph-like over the pools of sanguine liquid; the heavy weight of twin pistols in her hands — _bang bang_ — pirouetting through the gun smoke, a murderous ballerina in the shadows. If only someone could save her from such a life.

A whimper tumbled from her lips when she fell into the pool of blood at her feet. _Get up! You are made of marble. Marble doesn't break!_ Tears stung her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. A flash of red, white and blue whizzed passed her, a metallic clang echoed in the shadows around her, yelps and screams, pleads for mercy that was not given. And as she sat there, her pale white tutu turning pink from blood, her savoir sauntered out of darkness, a round shield on his arm with the flag of the United States emblazon upon his uniform. "I've rescued you Natalia," Steve said, throwing off the awful cowl with its jutting tiny white wings, his jaw and cheeks lined with a golden beard. He pulled her up from the ground, her injured ankle refusing to bear her weight, forcing her into his arms. Fresh notes of lime and white pepper swirled around her, layered over the earthy scents of dry oak and sandalwood all packaged nicely around the mysterious aroma of tequila. She could feel his hard protruding erection against her stomach.

"Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" she asked, staring into his smoldering baby blue eyes. A suave grin spread across his lips and he kissed her. She moaned — hot water cascading down her body, her fingers slipping into the silken folds between her legs as her thumb deftly found the little bundle of nerves — "Definitely happy to see me," she murmured, not bothering to question why she and Steve were suddenly naked in a ridiculously big bed (it was a shower fantasy, she could indulge in some fantastical silliness).

"You know what we are?" Steve asked, as she settled herself on his throbbing cock. A moan escaped her; shaking her head. "We're friends" — he thrust up into her — "with bang-efits." He gave her a cheesy wink. She rolled her hips, trying not to laugh. Steve flipped her onto her back, picking up the pace. She whimpered and moaned, breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. "You want my man meat, huh? You love my man meat deep inside your lady sandwich, dontcha, doll?" A giggly moan tumbled from her lips as he lifted her hips. "Gonna squirt my man mustard all over those perky titties. You're gonna love the salty taste and cry out for more cause my man mustard is the best you're ever gonna get!" he slapped her thigh and she yelped.

"Steve," she whined, looking up at him — she placed her foot against the wall in an effort to deepen the angle, her fingers a poor substitute for mental image of Steve's cock — "More."

"Gotta nice pearl necklace for you," he growled against her throat, "think you're the type of dame that looks damn good in pearls." He squeezed her breasts. Her cheeks flushed, her orgasm moments from breaking over her.

The water turned cold; she gasped, slipping but she had the balance of a cat and caught herself. Catching her breath, she straightened and twisted the knob off. Desire lingered between her legs, but reality jauntily intruded. Stomach growling, in desperate need of coffee and wondering why the fuck she had such a vivid ridiculous fantasy of Steve like that (Man mustard, seriously?), Natasha stepped out of the shower, shivering as she dried herself off and slipped back into her pajamas before dragging the brush tiredly through her damp hair. After a brief trip back to her room to slip on a pair of fuzzy socks Clint got her last year for Christmas and Natasha was somewhat ready to face the day.

Grey shadows of morning filled her suite's kitchen, aureate morning light seeped through the one window with the curtains drawn up. The strong heady smell of fresh brewing coffee wrapped its enticing tendrils around her, drawing her into the kitchen. And standing there at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee was the last person she wanted to see. Golden hair with a scruffy beard a few shades darker adorning his face, a grey Henley tight across his arms and chest. He looked up at her, a warm welcoming smile on his lips and she knew then and there that this was the feeling of home. "Let myself in," he said, pushing the coffee cup across the tabletop to her. She grabbed, sipping at the heady brew: a splash of milk and two sugars, just the way she liked it. "You still want pancakes?" he asked.

The coffee didn't ease the dryness in her throat, her brain kept replaying the awful shower fantasy of him ("Feast upon my man meat!"). All she could think about was that his eyes were bluer than the last time she saw him, his hair more flaxen and the beard just added a mature charm to him that his normal clean-shaven appearance lacked. Desire pooled once more between her legs, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribcage. The world was out to get her, she was sure of it. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she said, "Oh, fuck me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel
> 
> So… finally, got this chapter done. I'm pretty proud of it.
> 
> This is a romantic literary fanfic. I want to explore the concept of "almost". Major influences (musically) for this fic are: My Indigo, Hallelujah (Pentatonix cover), Let Her Go, among others. The story will explore the hesitation between Steve and Nat, and how their own feelings of inadequacies get in the way.
> 
> I actually have this story outline, and the first three chapters written down long hand. Hope you enjoyed this and have a Happy New Year!
> 
> Save an author; leave a review!


	2. Here Without You

_I'm here without you baby, but you're still on my lonely mind. I think about you baby, and I dream about you all the time. I'm here without you baby, but you're still with me in my dreams._ _—_ _3 Doors Down_

* * *

_None of us can go back. All we can do is our best and sometimes our best is to start over._ It was easy for Peggy to say that. She had lived her life. When her world fell apart after his supposed death in 1945, she had Howard and the Commandos to support her, a purpose — building Shield to protect the world from threats like Hydra and whatever else deemed dangerous beyond all reason — and she was still in the century she was born into. It was easy for her to start over; build a magnificent career, met a wonderful man and married him, have two beautiful children. She had lived her life.

Starting over for him was like being born again. A new century, a new culture, new technology, everyone he ever knew and loved gone, his entire life now nothing more than a museum exhibit (there was some dark irony about that, he was sure). Sometimes, he wondered if there was even a point in trying to start afresh (maybe that's why he jumped out of the quinjet without a parachute or why he chose to jump from the elevator to escape the STRIKE teams? The therapist Shield assigned him said he may have some suicidal tendencies due to his PTSD). Fury liked the point out he wasn't getting "with the program", Tony teased him about his incompetence with modern technology. Sure, the 21st Century vastly improved on the disparities between the sexes and the races from his time — something he applauded, having first hand experience with discrimination due to his Irish heritage and frail body — not to mention the United States was experiencing an unimaginable period of wealth unseen in its history since then. Knowledge was at his fingertips, medicine improved tenfold from his childhood — asthma was no longer a death sentence; mumps and measles, smallpox, the flue, polio, scarlet fever, whooping cough: all with vaccines or having been eradicated to the point that parents no longer lived in fear of their child dying. No, there was plenty of good things he could say about this new century.

A chainsaw revved in the background, a ditzy pretty blonde screamed in terror. The blue-white light of the tv offered poor lighting, but it didn't bother him. The serum allowed him to see even in the poorest lighting conditions. Sam sat in the Lay-Z Boy Chair next to the couch, munching through a bag of assorted mini candy bars. It was rather lowkey for Halloween. Last year, Natasha had dragged him to a Halloween event: The Zombie Walk. People dressed in zombie costumes, from the hyper realistic to the cartoonish. Beneath the pale grey October sky, people moaned and groaned, shambling down the street in good fun. It was interesting to say the least. Halloween, from his childhood, consisted more of throwing eggs at the school teacher's house, throwing rocks through the windows of storefronts, and destroying the flowerbeds of the little old lady down the street (maybe even pulling her cat's tail if the hapless creature was out). Some neighborhoods tried to curve the vandalism by offering sweets and games. Not that he ever partook in any of these activities. October meant the beginning of cold season and his mother had kept him inside. Instead, he and Bucky would carve pumpkins and listen to scary stories read on the radio. If he was really lucky, he'd get a homemade caramel apple.

More violent chainsaw sounds came from the tv as the masked villain carved up more hapless victims. The skritch-skratch of his pencil, though, was louder to him than the tv. "Dude," Sam said, "are you even gonna watch this?" He gestured to the tv.

Steve flipped his pencil around, erasing a bad line. "Nah." He brushed away the pink eraser crumbs, before lightly dragging his pencil over the empty spot — perfecting the line and adding a certain depth to the face he was sketching. "Slasher films aren't really my thing." He wished he had some color pencils or paints. Paint would be better, but if he was honest with himself, nothing man-made could really capture the vibrancy of her hair or that certain shade of vivid viridian of her eyes. Greyscale would have to do, and in a way, it caught the true nature of her better than any color could.

The chainsaw revved again, slashing the ditzy blonde, blood splattering the mask of the murderer. Movies like _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ and _Scream_ failed to capture the inhumanity of the human creature. It was for civilians looking for a good scare, something to laugh about since it was all fictional or a stylized historical event. It wasn't real. The murderers always got caught, the heroes saved the day. The Nazis and Hydra had done worse things to people with a sicker and darker depravity than anything Hollywood could conjure up. Hell, even the most notorious murderers in the later half of the 20th Century failed to churn his stomach — nothing could compare to what Hitler and Schmidt did to their victims.

_Kinda hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone truly is._

_Yeah… who do you want me to be?_

The open honesty in her eyes had pulled at his heart, as if she was seeking some form of autonomy from him — autonomy that she craved, instead of being whatever the situation called for. "Shouldn't've said a friend." He dragged his pencil down the curve of her nose. Frowning, he wetted the pad of his finger to smudge the graphite just so. Truth be told, he wanted her to be whomever she chose. He didn't want her to be defined by whatever _he_ said.

"Why don't you call her," Sam said, reaching into the bag for another candy bar. The bag sat on the end table between the couch and the chair. Steve shook his head, tracing the lines with his pencil to darken them. She liked propping her foot up on the dashboard, a definite glint in her eyes when he told her not to do it. Still, she removed her foot from the dashboard. That look — whatever one would call it — thrilled him. "She's doing good."

Sam snorted. "You filled up two sketchbooks of her in six months and you tell her you miss her. Yet, you're sitting here drawing her _again_ , instead of actually being with her?" Sam dropped the wrapper into the plastic grocery store bag. "I don't get that. If I had a smokin' hot babe waiting for me in New York, you'd bet your ass I'd be haulin' ass to get there to be with her."

Steve arched his brow. "We're just friends, you're allowed to miss friends." He slipped the paperclip onto the page and closed the book, setting it on the end table, next to the bag of candy, his pencil atop it. The hero of the movie was making his valent final stand against the vicious chainsaw murderer. "What's your point?"

"My point," Sam said, grabbing another piece of candy, "is that you're stupid. You're sitting here _drawing her_ instead of actually being with her. What are you waiting for, Steve? Her to invite you in? You waited too long with Peggy, and now you're sitting on your hands with Nat. If you keep sitting on them some other dude is gonna come around and snatch her up."

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He and Sam had this conversation before, and Sam was starting to sound like a broken record. Call Natasha. Tell Natasha what you're feeling. Make a move on Natasha. "It's complicated."

"You say that about everything," Sam said. "I asked you what makes you happy and you said you don't know. But" — he pointed his half-eaten candy bar at Steve — "I can see Natasha makes you happy. Being with her makes you happy. So, go get her."

Steve sighed, picking up the remote when the credits started to roll and flipped through the channels until he found _Dracula_ from 1931. The fanfare of the trumpets as the opening credits started to roll, followed up by the whine of strings and woodwinds that invoked a spooky miasma reminded him of when he first saw the movie in the theaters with Bucky. Bela Lugosi evoked everything that was darkly masculine: suave confidence, wealth and power, good looks. Skinny, gangly and sickly at thirteen, he remembered wishing he was like Bela Lugosi's Dracula. Then maybe the girls wouldn't laugh at him and the boys wouldn't shove him and stomp on his hands when he fell down. Other times he wished he was smooth as Clark Gable's Rhett Butler from _Gone with the Wind_ , he managed to woo Scarlett O'Hara (portrayed by the stunning Vivien Leigh), and at the time every young boy wanted to dance with Scarlett O'Hara — even a skinny sickly boy of Irish parents like him. "We're just friends," he mumbled, ignoring the way Sam looked at him. Closing his eyes, he could hear Natasha's voice in his head, so loud compared to the cacophony of the airport.

"It's been a while Steve," she said, when she finally answered on the third ring. He was standing near the baggage pick up — not that he had any baggage to claim. Being constantly on the go in the Army taught him how to pack light and in one or two carriable bags. The baggage was Sam's. People from all walks of life, from every corner of the globe, pushed and shoved their way through to the baggage claim conveyor belt. The mechanical voice of the announcer echoed above the chaotic noise of machine and people. Yet, Natasha's voice was the calm among the storm.

"Yeah," he said, scratching behind his ear, "sorry. Didn't have a phone in Europe." A breathy laugh echoed after that. Of course, he had a phone; a burner phone but still a phone. He could have called but he didn't, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was because he wasn't sure what to say to her or he was afraid that if he did call her, he'd pour his heart out to her and ruin their friendship. A blonde in a blouse and navy pencil skirt pushed passed him to get to the baggage claim.

"Understandable," Natasha said, not bothering to call him out on his lie.

"Went to Moscow," he said, walking through the crowd and over to a pillar. It was out of the way from the sea of humanity, an ebb in the flow of people. Wide-eyed Americans from the Heartland stared in wonder at the skyline of the capital just outside the airport's window. Business-people walked by at a brisk pace, dragging their wheeled carry-on behind them while chatting rapid-fire on their phones. Japanese tourists in their ten plus tour groups, snapping pictures at everything interesting they could see or asking baffled bystanders to take group photos. "Saw the Saint Basil's Cathedral," he said, remembering the Christmas colored domes of the cathedral against the pale blue sky.

"It's a nice city, lots of history. Been there once or twice."

He chuckled at that. All he could think about while in Moscow was her — Sam had bugged him to call her, as neither of them could speak passible Russian. He didn't. "I thought of you," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "dreamt of you." He tucked his arm around chest, tipping his head back against the pillar, the florescent lights harsh against his eyes. He could still smell the mint and cucumber from her shampoo when she kissed him on the cheek.

"Oh." Her tone was cryptic, and he wondered what she meant by that.

"Didn't call that nurse." He braced one foot against the pillar, watching as Sam chased down his bag. She had asked him to call Sharon, saying she was nice. Even texted him her number to make sure he had it. Steve knew Natasha meant well, but still — he wished she would stop trying to find him a date. If he wanted to date, he could get one.

"Why?" He could hear the blankets on her bed rustling as she sat up.

Closing his eyes, he said, "cause she wasn't you." He should have gone after her in the graveyard, should have told her he wanted her to stay. Instead he let her go, watched her walk away. Bucky remained in the wind, all the leads in the file turning up to be dead ends. Old men, riddled with dementia in nursing homes, laughing when he asked them questions in a grabbled mess of English and Russian. Any of the men that had control of Bucky recently had been scattered to the four corners of the globe, their footprints long gone.

The SSR had trained Bucky to be a sniper and an assassin. The ghost that did the work his shield was too pure to handle. A few nights — near the end of the war, he remembered Bucky coming back to camp, wet black splotches on his dark coat, a knife coated in an inky colored liquid. There was a haunted look in his friend's eyes — "They're kids, Steve, just kids." — one that only wet work could place there. In the morning light following those nights Bucky went out into the woods, their way through enemy lines were cleared and their enemy unprepared for their assault. All thanks to Bucky's bitter work. War had twisted them both, distorting the pure hearted Brooklyn boys they once were.

"Kinda hard to find someone with shared life experience, huh?" she asked, parroting his words back to him. He laughed at the irony of it.

"Yeah," he said, straightening and shoving his hand into his pocket. "Pretty damn hard."

"It's good to hear from you again, been a long time Steve."

"It has hasn't it?" Sam lifted his bag off the conveyor belt and started making his way towards the pillar, pushing and shoving through the crowd. Steve knew that once Sam got to him his conversation with Natasha would be over. He hoped Sam took his time.

"Six months," she said.

"God Almighty," he said, "I missed you, Tasha."

Silence echoed on her end of the line, and for a moment he feared she had hung up on him and any moment the dial tone would drone in his ear. Had he said too much? Was telling her he missed her crossing a line she didn't want him to cross? Peggy had told him he didn't know a bloody thing about women, and in some regards, she was right, but he felt that even if he knew everything about women, he would never understand Natasha Romanoff.

"Hey," she said after three painfully long heartbeats, "this may sound crazy but" — a pause — "can you come up and make me pancakes tomorrow morning?"

"Tomorrow?" he asked. The serum staved off fatigue, but even flying eight hours from London to DC, there was going to be jet lag, and nobody got the best sleep while on an airplane. It was roughly a four-hour drive from DC to New York, and he'd have to leave early to get to Avengers Tower at any reasonable time for breakfast.

"If you—"

"Sure," he said, "I'll see you at eight?" Why did I agree? I'm going to have to crash as soon as I get to Sam's. And he wanted to stay up and watch horror movies cause it's Halloween.

"It's a date, then," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Sam was coming up to the pillar, an annoyed frowned on his face. "Date… huh." He felt like he was on cloud nine. A date with Natasha — even if he was just making her pancakes.

"Bye Steve," she said, and he heard her line go silent as she hung up. Pulling the phone away from his ear and when Sam greeted him, all he could hear was Natasha's voice: _It's been a long time, Steve._

* * *

"Steve, go to bed," Sam said. Steve blinked, the sweet memory slipping through his fingers. The main characters had reached Dracula's castle via a driverless carriage. The music mysterious and dramatic, indicating a major turning point in the story. "You're gonna go make her pancakes, you have a helluva drive tomorrow."

"I'll be fine," he said, grabbing a packet of M&Ms and tearing the corner off with his teeth to empty the entire bag into his mouth. "Stayed up for sixty hours once during the war. Only went to bed cause I was about to collapse from exhaustion."

"You shouldn't be driving with no sleep," Sam said, "super-soldier or not." He leaned over the side of the chair and picked up his bottle of half-drunk beer. "I still think you're nuts for doing this."

He shrugged, wiping some chocolate off the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Well, Natasha wants pancakes." Bela Lugosi appeared on screen in all his gothic undead glory as Dracula, Prince of the Night. All the girls at his school swooned over Bela Lugosi, giggling about how handsome and suave he was. Smiling a little at the memory, he pulled out his compass, thumbing the picture of Peggy. For a moment a crazy idea crossed his mind: replace the picture with one of Natasha. As soon as the idea popped into his head, he dismissed it. It wouldn't feel right, replacing Peggy's picture. Peggy had always guided him when he felt lost, pointing him towards true north.

Sam shrugged. "People have done crazier things when they're in love. Guess driving four hours to make a girl breakfast is not _that_ insane." The music picked up as Dracula's sanguinary secret was revealed to the audience.

"Nat's just a friend" — he snapped the compass close, slipping it into his pocket — "Peggy is the only woman I love."

"I don't believe you."

He stood up, grabbing his sketchbook and pencil. "Believe what you want Sam." He started heading to the guest room. "All I know is that I met the love of my life and I crashed a plane into the ice and got frozen for seventy years."

Sam grunted. "If Peggy is the love of your life why are you driving four hours to make pancakes for a woman you claim is 'just a friend'?"

Steve frowned; the only other person able to see through his bullshit was Bucky. "Nat's just a really good friend, Sam." The paperclip felt cool beneath his fingertip. The music flared once more into life, cueing another dramatic turn in the story. Sam dropped his empty beer bottle into the plastic grocery store bag.

"So… if Tony wanted pancakes, you'll drive four hours to make him some?"

Turning, he looked at his friend with a flummoxed frown. "No." What did Tony have to do with any of this?

"What about Carol or Bruce?" Sam leaned towards Steve, resting his chin on his palm.

"No, of course not," Steve said, holding the sketchbook close to his chest as if it could protect him from Sam's prying insightful gaze. "What does this have to do with Natasha?"

"But you'll do it for Nat?" Sam asked, pointing at him. Steve ignored the amused smile on Sam's face. "Cause you're in love with her."

Scowling, he shook his head. "I don't have to listen to this." He turned around, heading down the hall. Sam threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Don't get pissy at me, Steve, for calling you out on your bullshit." He grabbed the flipper and changed the channel. "Real mature."

"Good night Sam," he called from the bedroom and closed the door, not catching what Sam said in response. A part of him wanted to rise to the bait, argue his point with Sam. In his heart though, he knew Sam was right. His friend simply was blunt enough to be honest with him. The guest room was dark and for a moment, Steve just stood there, eyes closed as he leaned back against the door. Faintly, he could hear a new movie — probably another slasher flick or maybe a movie about a supposedly true haunted house.

Flipping on the light, he looked around — the room hadn't changed since he and Natasha had been in it. _If it was the other way around — and you be honest with me — would you trust me to save your life?_

_I would now._

The conversation almost seemed like a lifetime ago. Everything felt like a lifetime ago. Deciding that it wasn't good to visit the ghosts of his past right now, he stripped to his boxers and crawled into bed. In the dark, he stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows twist and twirl in the dark. For a moment he wondered if he should shave his beard tomorrow but decided against it. He'll shave day after tomorrow. Closing his eyes, he let out a low slow breath. Just because he didn't want to relive memories didn't mean his subconscious listened. When Natasha had asked him if he trusted her, he had said yes; only because she had showed some trust in him previously.

* * *

Evening started to set in when his stomach growled loud enough that Natasha arched a brow. "Sorry," he mumbled, trying to hide the fact he was starting to get lightheaded. Being on the run from Shield… Hydra — fuck — he didn't know anymore, didn't afford him a lot of time to eat. Adrenaline had gotten him through most of the day but now it started to catch up with him. "Just hungry," he said, hoping it came off as casual and normal. Normal people could do the drive from DC to New Jersey without eating, right? He wondered how much Natasha knew about the super soldier serum and the physical and metabolic effects it had. Would she become worried if he almost passed out? He remembered when that happened during the war, Bucky had panicked and ever since then the Commandos carried emergency MREs (Bucky carried two). After the ice, he just gotten into the habit of carrying a couple of protein bars with him. Being forced to go on the run with little time to prepare didn't allow him to grab his stash of emergency protein bars.

Natasha made a sound. "You have cash, right?" she asked. He blinked. "If not, that's okay. I can get some from an ATM."

"I don't think withdrawing from your bank account is a good idea, Romanoff," he said, pressing his fingers to his temple. Jesus, he needed to find food soon otherwise he'll risk passing out and that was the last thing they needed.

A smirk danced on her face as she chuckled. "You don't need to go back to being so formal with me _Steve_ ," she said, almost purring his name. "Quiet like it when you call me Nat. Rumlow sure got flustered when you did."

He grunted in response. A sign came up, advertising food, gas and lodging in the next half mile. "Do you mind if we stop and eat?" he asked. She shook her head and it took some effort not to breathe a sigh of relief. The exit came up within a few minutes and he took it, entering the small town that survived solely on people passing by on the highway. It was a risk, stopping here. If Shield — why is he still call them that, it's _Hydra_ — came through they would easily find out they had been here or worse: find them. Maybe they should just grab some food at the gas station. His vision blurred, ghostly doubles appeared on the rod and he swerved into the other lane to avoid the imaginary phantoms.

"Steve!" Natasha yanked the wheel and he shook his head, clearing the false images. "What the hell?" she asked. There wasn't anger in her tone — harsh as it was — but concern.

"Hungry," he said, and pulled into a little Mom'n'Pop diner. When he finally put the truck in park, he almost let himself pass out. Natasha's cool hand against his cheek helped him keep his head. "Sorry," he mumbled, unable to meet her worried gaze; reflexively he leaned into her hand. Damn serum and a metabolism that ran four times as fast.

"Let's get you something to eat," she said, her voice soft. Nodding, he waited for her to get out first, and once she was at his side, did he get out. Her hand between his shoulder blades helped steady him, as they entered the diner. The waitress gave them a tired smile and led them to an empty booth by the window; a clear view of the highway and parking lot before them. She handed them some menus and went to get them glasses of water. Distantly, he heard Natasha order a large soda. He squeezed his eyes shut. He forgot how miserable this was. His hands shook, he clenched them.

"Here ya go," the waitress said, putting the soda in front of Natasha. "I'll be back when you're ready to order." She walked away to chitchat with the other waitress. Natasha slid the soda over to him.

"Drink, slowly," she said, and he did as he was told, sipping at the sugary fizzy drink. It helped, but it could only stave off the effects for a little bit. What he need was a meal, protein. Not sugar.

"Need protein," he said. She patted his hand, flipping through the menu. "They got steak?" he asked.

"Mostly burgers," she said. "Mm, this triple patty cheeseburger may do it."

"Order two then, and a bunch of fries," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. His head hurt. "I'm sorry." He hated feeling weak and pathetic. Felt like that his entire life until Project: Rebirth. So, whenever this happened, and he became an inconvenience to someone — especially during a scenario that was life and death —he hated how his body could betray him like this.

"You already said that," she said, and smiled at the waitress. If the woman thought their order was unusual, she didn't say anything. Instead, she calmly took their menus and left, shouting at the cook their order as she neared the little window that peeked into the greasy kitchen. "Deep breathes," Natasha said, rubbing his arm, "food'll be here soon."

"You don't seem all that concerned," he said, sipping at the soda, the lightheadedness began to fade, passing out didn't feel so immediate. She gave a little shrug, poking the ice cubes in her water with a pensive expression; they made a soft plastic clink as they hit the sides of the cup.

"Fury wasn't the only one that read those SSR files," she said, taking a sip of her water. She made a face. A big rig truck pulled up, its headlights shining into the diner. The light made him feel exposed, and he tried to hunch his bulk into the booth. Natasha plucked the straw from her water and dropped it into his soda. "Lean forward and take a sip," she whispered, putting action to word. Blinking, he followed suit, sipping from the soda with her as the big barrel-chested trucker sauntered into the diner, grease stains on his shirt. The other waitress lead him to a counter seat and poured him a cup of coffee. "You never did tell me what word you'd use for that kiss on the escalator," she said, her tone flirty as she laced the fingers of their free hand together. "I'm kinda curious." She winked.

Steve swallowed. The feel of her lips — soft and moist from her chapstick — still tingled on his; she broke it too soon, when he wasn't done savoring the fact they fit so well together. Her petite waist cradled in his large hand, her breasts pressing against his chest just right, how she threaded her fingers in the short strains of his hair at the base of his skull — he still wasn't sure if she did that intentionally or not — the taste of her lips. He coughed. "Well, uhm…" he swallowed down his blush. Thankfully, their food came. It was easier to start eating than explain to her what he couldn't explain to himself. Was it okay for him to love someone else now? Should he ask Peggy for permission to move on? She didn't — not that she could, thinking he was dead and all that — but he didn't know if falling in love with someone else would mean he no longer loved Peggy. "So, you obviously know about me," he said, "why don't you tell me a bit about yourself. Like where you grew up?" There. A simple and easy conversation starter.

Natasha picked up a fry and bit it in two. "It's better if you don't know too much about who I was… am, Steve."

He licked some grease from his finger. "C'mon. I promise I won't tell" — he gave her a boyish grin — "Been through crazier shit, promise."

Natasha lowered her eyes, pressing her thumb nail through another fry. "It's not a Girl Scout campfire story."

"You can tell me what you want, the good parts." It was making him more curious with the way she avoided the subject of her past. "Want me to go first?" he asked. A nonchalant shrug was the only response he got from her; she sipped her water. "Alright" — he took another bite, chewed and swallowed — "I was born in Brooklyn. Dad died in the Great War — erm WWI — and my mam raised me on her own. Was a sickly runt for most of my life. Then I joined the Army when I was twenty-four." He gestured to himself. "Rest is history. See? Easy."

"For you," she said, dragging another fry through some ketchup. "Not so much for me." She ate the ketchup covered part. "I'm an orphan," she said. "Lived on the streets of Volgograd. There was a ballet studio, the owner found me in the attic one night. Instead of kicking me out to freeze to death, she let me stay. So long as I cleaned. Fed me and taught me some ballet basics." Natasha stared at the mutilated fry. "Then they found me," she said, smooshing the fry into the ketchup. She looked at him with haunted innocent eyes.

There was something fundamentally wrong with the expression on her face, an uncanny feeling of horror being juxtapose with this childish innocence. For the first time since knowing her, Steve felt that there was a reason Tony feared her. Lifting his chin, he met her gaze and said in a soft voice, "I'm not afraid of you."

Natasha blinked, her face blank and for a moment he could read her like an open book: fear, insecurity, self-loathing, a desire to be loved despite all the blood in her past. Natasha blinked again, putting the mask back into place with an amused smile.

"You feeling better, Rogers?" she asked. And just like that, the subject of her past was dropped. As much as he wanted to press her for more information, he knew that would get him nowhere. Natasha told him all she wanted him to know, and if he wanted to know more, he would just have to wait until she was ready to tell him more.

"Yeah," he said, wiggling a strip of bacon out from beneath the soggy bun, "I am."

* * *

Though Sam told him this was stupid, he got up at four the next day and drove to Manhattan. The drive was dull, for the most part, but the riot of autumn colors did offer him something pretty to look at as he drove. As a boy growing up with red/green colorblindness, the autumn leaves would often look like clusters of pea green, a color he associated with vomit. The colorblindness was a reason he drew in greyscale. When he opened his eyes for the first time after receiving the serum, he saw color for the first time: in shades he never thought possible and in wavelengths he didn't know the human eye could process. The brilliance of color drew him, the brighter and more vivid, the better: Natasha's hair, shining brilliant copper in the afternoon sun or lush vermilion illuminated by the soft glow fo the television of her apartment as they sat and watched Disney movies; the vividness of her viridian irises and he clam shell pink of her lips.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he wiggled his fingers. They itched with the urge to draw Natasha again. Last year, they visited New York during November and he remembered how she laughed with Carol, tossing the damp dead leaves at each other. A smile tugged at his lips, the sound of Natasha's laugh loud in his ears. The length of the drive did allow him to over analyze every aspect of their last encounter. What did she mean when she kissed him on the cheek for two seconds? Was calling Sharon something she wanted him to do or was it another suggestion like Kristen and Lillian? Was she hoping he'd call her while he and Sam were looking for Bucky? Did she still about the escalator kiss or was that kiss simply business to her? Why did she put so much effort into saving him on the bank of the Potomac if they were just friends? Were they just friends? Why did she ask him to come up and make her pancakes the day after he got back to the States?

Alas, he had no answers to any of these questions and he was inept enough with women that he doubted he'll even be able to ask her any of those questions. By the time he reached Avengers Tower, his anxiety over meeting Natasha against after six months of not talking to her — almost — made him turn back. Still, he walked into the tower, frowning slightly when Lillian from accounting (Tony had hired most of Shield's logistic personal as they weren't Hydra) greeted him (he also noticed that she had removed her lip ring) and there was no sign of the Avengers or Maria Hill. Mumbling a polite _good morning_ to Lillian, Steve stepped into the elevator.

"Good morning, Captain," JARVIS said, after the welcoming chime of the elevator. "Pleasure seeing you back here. Were you successful?"

"Not really," he said, dragging his fingers through his beard and regretting not shaving. Natasha will probably think he looked like a scruff hobo with his longish hair and unshaven face. He'll need to visit a barber soon. The elevator began to rise with a soft mechanical hum. "What… where is everyone?"

"Hungover I presume," the AI said, and for a moment Steve could've swore there was a disapproving tartness to JARVIS's tone. "Last night was Halloween and Mr. Stark and you fellow Avengers partied hard and drunk more than they should."

"Anyone up?" he asked, squinting against the sunlight that illuminated the rooftops of the city, glinting off the steel and glass. The view was lovely, and Steve did enjoy riding the elevator. A few times, he had sat in the elevator and sketched, JARVIS was helpful in those moments as he would tell people this particular elevator was offline and direct them to another one.

"May I ask why you're here, Captain? Mr. Stark wasn't expecting you until at least next week. Not that your rooms aren't prepared."

"Spying on me now JARVIS?"

"Hardly Captain" — that affronted tone again — "Mr. Stark as asked me to keep tabs on all the Avengers in case of emergencies."

"Ah." Steve nodded, turning away from the cityscape, the sunlight hurting his eyes. Today promised to be clear and crisp, the whisper of coming winter growing into a beckoning siren's song, with everything holding its breath and waiting to die. "Is anyone awake?" he asked again. He'd hate it if he drove all this way just to learn Natasha was still sleeping. Then again, she may enjoy a nice surprised breakfast in bed.

"Miss Romanoff is currently awake, those she's indisposed at the moment" — there was a pause from the AI — "would you prefer me to drop you off at her floor or yours, Captain?"

"Hers, please," he said, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "we sorta have a breakfast date."

"Delightful," JARVIS said, "I take it you don't wish for me to rouse the others and inform them you will be making your signature pancakes, then."

"No, please don't do that." He didn't need Tony whining at him or Thor eating the entire first two batches or Carol teasing him. The elevator stopped at Natasha's floor, the doors sighing as they opened.

"I do hope you enjoy your private breakfast with Miss Romanoff," JARVIS said, as he stepped out. Rolling his eyes, Steve tamped down the annoyance that everyone and their computerized butler seemed want to point out that this was a special case because it was Natasha.

"I'm sure she will," he said, as the doors closed behind him. "Nat's a good friend." He walked down the hallway until he got to Natasha's door. It didn't open and he glanced up at the ceiling. "JARVIS."

The AI didn't respond and the door didn't open. "I believe Captain," JARVIS said, "that pointing out you are doing this for Miss Romanoff only and not informing the rest of the Avengers would be how do you put it" — a brief pause — "Calling you on your bullshit?"

Steve forced a smile onto his face. "Thanks for the lift JARVIS, please open the door." Even Tony's AI butler had to needle him. Then again, Tony did design the program, so it wasn't that much of a shock. Though he wished people would understand that Natasha was just a good friend and people could do odd things for their closest friends. The door hissed open. Am I really fooling anyone or just myself? He stepped into the room.

Natasha's suite was quiet, save for the distant running of water — probably Natasha taking a shower. A smile crept onto his face, imaging Natasha naked with her skin flushed from the hot water and rivulets running down between her breasts and junction of her hips. Heat colored his cheeks and he had to give himself a little shake as he headed to the kitchen. Grey shadows illuminated the kitchen and he began to a pot of coffee and rolled up one curtain to get some more natural light in. Coffee gurgled as it brewed, filling the space with its intoxicating scent and for a moment he imagined that a morning like this would be what the rest of his life would look like. Making breakfast for the woman he loved, seeing her smile when he handed her a warm cup of coffee just the way she liked it; kissing her breasts as she sat on the counter — dessert to start the day.

Groaning, he leaned forward, gripping the counter-top hard enough to crack it. God, he missed her and being this close to her yet so far away, was driving him mad. Maybe everyone was right, and he was in love with her — no, she was his friend — one of his best friends. It was a line he couldn't cross. "What am I doing here?" he whispered, staring at his feet.

The coffee machine beeped at him. Grabbing a cup from the cupboard he poured in the dark black liquid, adding milk and two spoons of sugar. Soft footsteps caused him to look up and there she was, awashed in pale shadows, hair still damp from her shower, face flushed from heat and scrubbing, a fluffy cream-colored robe wrapped around her body. He smiled, warm and welcoming. "I let myself in" — he pushed the coffee cup across the tabletop — "still want pancakes?" he asked.

He watched her take a sip, then another and finally a third before pinching the bridge of her nose and mumbled, "Oh fuck me."

Well that was unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo! Chapter 2 is done.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. I kinda don't like it. For some reason I find writing Steve hard now. Irunno. Don't expect the next chapter any time soon. I'm writing them long hand so I can keep pace, and I'd like to have two chapters done before I start transcribing. That means, I need to finish chapter 4 long hand and start chapter 5 before I can post chapter 3. Writing long hand gives me an idea on where to go and allows me to not be so much of a perfectionist.
> 
> Also to the asshole guest leaving nasty comments: Fuck off. You don't have to read this story. Don't make me start reviewing comments before posting them. Everyone else can be nice.
> 
> As always constructive criticism is welcomed.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	3. Free Fall

Warmth spread throughout her body, heart hammering a quick tattoo against her ribcage, and lust pooled between her legs. He was standing there, a hundred paces from her — in her kitchen no less — with an easy smile on his lips. Reflexively, she caught the coffee cup, its heady aroma wafting up to her, banishing the need for sleep. "Oh, fuck me," she hissed, realizing she didn't need this. Not now, not when the images from her little shower fantasy still danced like perverted sugarplum fairies in her head. Coffee, yes, coffee; Natasha brought the cup up and gulped a hot creamy mouthful.

"I mean… I'd like to," Steve said, a hint of pink in his cheeks.

Hot coffee came out her nose and some went down her throat wrong. Coughing — gagging more like it — with her eyes watering, coffee and boogers dripping down her lip, she stared at him. "What?" she asked. Did he just say he wanted to _fuck her_ or was she hearing things? Was she still addled with sleep, hung over, traversing a dreamscape?

"What?" Steve asked, scratching at his beard and trying to appear casual. Damn, he looked good with a beard, and the way his hair caught the morning light, like spun aureate strands, angelic and warm. Grabbing the hem of her nightshirt, she wiped her face. "You still want pancakes?" he asked again.

Pancakes, yes, that was something she can focus on that wasn't related to Steve in anyway. "Y-Yeah," she said, blinking away the tears. The coffee burned her nasal passages, and she frowned when she saw a suspicious glob of mucus in her cup. Today wasn't starting off good. The feeling of an impending bad day loomed over head, a cackling shadow that she didn't want to deal with. As she poured the coffee down the sink, she was acutely aware of Steve's eyes on her — a roaming gaze, memorizing her curves; a small thrill tingling down her spine and tugging her lips into a quirky smile — and she couldn't stop thinking about what he said: _I mean… I'd like to._ His lips had been soft against hers, unsure yet willing, with the lingering minty taste of toothpaste from when he brushed his teeth that morning before work (because of course he does). When she had pulled away, his lips still tried to hold onto hers, like he didn't want the kiss to end, but the danger had passed. Shaking her head, she poured herself another cup of coffee, adding milk and sugar, before sitting down and watching Steve cook her breakfast. "You missed it," she said after a while, nails tap-tapping against the ceramic cup.

"Missed what?" he asked over his shoulder, spooning batter onto a hot gridle. The raw batter sizzled, little arches of fat dancing about and the smell of cooking pancakes soon filled the kitchen, causing her mouth to water. If this was a dream, she didn't want to wake up.

"Tony's Halloween party," she said, sipping her (now booger free) coffee. "I wore an ivy bikini."

He chuckled, wiggling a plastic spatula beneath a pancake, flipping it. "Shame I missed it, maybe I should try to make the next one." He flashed her a grin. "I know you looked terrible though. Bikinis aren't your style."

Years of training in the Red Room kept the blush from her cheeks, but still, her lips twitched into a smile — one she hid behind her coffee mug. "Oh" — she took sip of coffee — "What is my style then, Rogers?" she agreed, mirth in her eyes. The sizzling got louder when he flipped them onto the still raw side.

"Well… um" — he swallowed — "I mean… I — I told you that you'd look terrible in bikinis Tasha—"

"Nat," she said, setting her cup down with a soft thunk. "Call me Nat." Tasha sounded weird coming from him. Tony called her "Tasha". The nickname made her skin crawl, like spiders walking all over her. Made her sound dirty — common Russian whore filth. James and Alexi always called her Natalia, and Clint called her Nat. But the way Steve said it — _Nat_ — as if he was uttering the name of the Virgin Mary, or a primal goddess he had sworn himself to; there was reverence in the way he said it, and that made her feel special. "I don't like it when you call me Tasha, it sounds weird."

"Oh." He grabbed a plate, loading it up with some pancakes. "I just… well, I figured… I don't know…" An awkward bashfulness appeared in his eyes, as if he was unsure of himself. It almost made her wonder if he had any previous relationships before the ice, or if he never got the chance. The thought caused her to sit up straighter, realization striking her like a lightning bolt. She didn't know the first thing about Steve. Okay — she knew general information: birthday, height and weight, hair and eye color, where he was born, the names of his parents, when he went missing, but all of that was in his file (or can be found in the Smithsonian exhibit dedicated to him). What she didn't know were the intimate details: his favorite food, favorite color, what did he like, what did he not like, first pet, first girlfriend, first kiss, how old was he when he lost his virginity — _has_ he lost his virginity? — did he want a family, kids, what did he want to be when he grew up; the whole twenty questions thing. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, busying himself in finding the syrup.

"I like it when you call me Nat," she said, tapping her nails against her cup. She took a sip. "Makes me feel special."

"Oh." He opened the cupboard door and grabbed the syrup. "I well… uh…" He stood there, cradling the syrup in his hands. Awkwardness flopped over them like a heavy wet blanket. It made her shift in her seat, trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling. Normally, she never had a problem with talking to men, she always seemed to know the right thing to say to keep a conversation going, to steer it out of trouble waters. For some reason though, everything she ever knew about men went out the window with Steve. That's not to say she couldn't get under his skin or manipulate him, but it was the fact that she _didn't_ want to. It came naturally to her with Tony and Bruce and to some extent Thor, but besides Clint, she just couldn't bring herself to lead Steve like that.

Not after he told her he trusted her to save his life. Despite everything, despite not knowing if she was working for Hydra or not, he had trusted her. And trust — especially in her line of work — was dearer than gold and salt. "So," she drawled, biting her lip, "did you have a cat or a dog?"

"Pardon?" he turned around, confusion on his face. She smiled, feeling the heavy awkwardness begin to slip free.

"Did you have a dog or a cat as a kid?" she asked, as he finished making her breakfast. He pulled out strawberries and whipped cream from the fridge. The strawberries smelled of spring, despite it being autumn and she wondered where Pepper got fresh strawberries from this time of year. "I had a bunny," she said. A cute little rabbit, with black and brown spots against white fur. It was her closest friend and she kept it close to her at night. After two weeks her instructors told her to kill it, wring its neck. "It died." The crunch of bones as her small child hands twisted her poor rabbit's neck. A pat on the cheek — _Ochen' khorosho Natalia_ — she cried herself to sleep that night, missing the warm weight of her rabbit against her side.

"No," he said, "Mam couldn't afford it and we weren't allowed pets in our apartment." He sliced the strawberries and put them on top of the pancakes before adding whipped cream. "Always wanted a dog though." He pulled out a fork and knife, setting the plate in front of her and then the fork and knife on either side. She got a heady whiff of his cologne: white oak and white pepper with a hint of lime and tequila. It made her skin tingle with desire. "Maybe I'll get a dog one day, once everything settles down."

Slicing into her pancakes she said, "I'd like to have a cat." The fluffy buttery taste hit her tongue, a moan escaping her. The springtime sweetness of the strawberries mixed with the syrup and the creamy taste of whipped cream — heaven in her mouth. "These are so good." She closed her eyes, to savor every moment.

"I'm glad." He set a bowl of strawberries and the whipped cream canister in the middle of the table and then sat down with his own loaded plate of pancakes. A comfortable silence fell between them as they ate, and she took the time to study him, memorizing how the light played off his hair, the healthy pink of his skin. It was difficult to imagine that he was once skinny and sickly, wondering if he'll live through the next winter or even to his next birthday. It was a life she couldn't fathom.

"Lemme guess," she said, pointing her fork at him; Steve looked up at her, mouthful. "You're a virgin." His eyes grew wide as he swallowed. Smirking, she tucked her head as she cut another slice. "Knew it."

An awkward sound — half choke, half cough — escaped him and his cheeks paled for half a heartbeat before turning a bright pink. "Is it because of what I said? Is that why you're asking?"

 _I mean… I'd like to._ "No," she said, a blithe smile on her face as she took another bite of her pancakes. "Just curious."

He chuckled. "Funny thing to say after not seeing me for six months."

"Yeah" — she sipped some coffee — "Just wondering if you're this paragon of virtue that everyone thinks you are," she teased. She was fourteen when she lost her maidenhead, fourteen and scared. Her first man was big, hairy, and smelled of vodka and cigarettes, huffing and grunting on top of her. The Headmistress told her this was to make her a woman, that and her menses signified she was no longer a girl. Still after the bastard had tucked himself back into his pants and left her in her cell like room, she felt violated and dirty, crying herself to sleep.

"I'm not as pure as everyone thinks I am," Steve said, a small smirk tugging at his lips, returning to his food. Natasha didn't say anything, poking at her pancakes. "I'm a good Catholic boy. Learned my prayers in Latin, listened to Sister Mary Anne." The sun climbed higher in the sky, the clock continued to tick-tock away the seconds. The kitchen returned from a muted slate grey to a pale, pale gold. A gulf of years and experience stretched before her and Steve, and it felt as if she was stuck on an island and he was drifting further and further out to sea, an ideal she could never have nor hoped to obtain. "Army changed a lot of that." A devil may care smirk crossed his lips.

"Went to church every Sunday?" she asked, spearing the last bite of her pancakes. Steve nodded, wiping syrup from his lips with a napkin. "Did you really?" she asked, a note of disbelief in her voice. Matt went to church every Sunday, a few times he dragged her as well. It was different from the Russian Orthodox mass she had attended a few times, but there was something profound about the sacrificium of mass; if she believed in God — or any religion — she would have felt the presence of the divine. Instead, listening to the priest ramble on about goodness and love, she felt icky; as if a thin sheen of oil covered her skin, itching and soiling everything she touched, spreading out from around her and tainting all within her vicinity. 

"Sure did," he said, "went to Sunday school as well. Choir practice after school, was an alter boy. Bible study three days a week. Kept me out of trouble some days. Then again, Mam always said I had a knack for trouble. A restless soul she said" — he smiled, a fond forlorn expression — "like my da." He leaned back, looking at a point over her shoulder. "Wish I still had her bible, but it's probably gone." He stabbed his pancakes. "Along with everything else in my apartment after I went into the ice."

"Did you have pictures of her?" she asked, curious about the woman his mother was. He nodded. "How many?" 

"One, maybe two. Can't remember," he said, with a chuckle. "It's funny. I only remember the most vivid memories from my childhood, but after the serum" — he scratched his cheek — "I remember everything. Clear as day, like it happened minutes ago. Everything. I remember it all." He leaned forward. "Do you know what's it like to die?" There was a queer seriousness to his tone, as if he dared her to disagree with him. She shook his head. "I know. I died twice." 

"Twice?" she frowned. She knew he probably died when he got frozen or at least something similar to the experience. "How did you die twice?" she asked. 

"The heart is a muscle," he said, "and the serum enhanced everything. My heart was weak, always had a weak heart" — he shook his head — "anyway, when the serum made all my muscles grow to the state they are now, it also effected my heart. The sudden stress, how fast everything happened, my heart couldn't take it and it stopped. For a moment or two I was dead. Then the serum kicked in and my heart started up again, and I heard the pod open with a hiss, and I took my first breath as a new man. It was like being reborn." 

"The ice was the second time?" It was a rhetorical question, one she was glad he didn't confirm. "So it hurt?" she asked. "Being turned into a super soldier?" She remembered being wheeled into a sterile room with a stainless steel gurney, bright overhead lights and grotesque looking medical instruments. Needles being poked into her arm, injecting whatever it was into her body or drawing blood. Voices talking at her, she repeating what they said in a drugged haze, a sharp slap to the cheek to keep her focused on the task at hand. _Tantsuy, Natalia, tantsuy_. And she did, perfectly as if she been training for years. A frown twisted her lips. Of course she had been training for years, she was the top student at the Bolshoi school of ballet. _Ya vizhu, chto konditsionirovaniye effektivno. Ona tantsuyet tak, slovno trenirovalas' godami. Fizicheskiye uluchsheniya takzhe byli dostignuty._ She blinked. No. No, that's not... what... happened? She's... she's a ballerina. The Red Room... the gun heavy in her hand, Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_ playing in the background. Nausea churned in her stomach, a sharp pain pounded in her skull — it felt like a jackhammer trying to split her skull at the base. The Red Room — she had no place in the world. She felt like she was going to be sick. 

"Nat?" Steve asked, concern in his voice. 

Sunlight glinted off glass and a zipping bird caught her eye. She didn't finished her pancakes, pushing her almost eaten plate to the side and cradling her half-drunk cup of coffee as she watched Steve continue to eat. Flashes of memories flitted in and out of her conscious mind: a cell like room with an iron frame bed. A pair of handcuffs dangling from the twisted iron bed post. Crude iron bars on a tiny window. Running through the snowy woods with only the moonlight to guide her and the baying of starving hounds at her back. The sharp tang of blood — coppery, metallic — against the clean whiteness of snow. Natasha inhaled the heady earthiness of her coffee, and exhaled in a long drawn out sigh. The silence felt heavy with anticipation for something profound. It bore down on her, urging her to speak her heart, but she was too good at keeping her deepest secrets to herself. The refrigerator rumbled into life. "What am I to you?" she sipped her coffee, watching him behind half hooded eyes. The question caught him off guard and he looked up at her.

"Pardon?"

She gave him a mysterious smile. "You said that it's hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is" — she took another sip of coffee — "so, who am I to you?"

The ticking of the clock seemed louder than it was as she waited for him to answer. She had said she was a friend, and a part of her hoped he would deepen that connection to something more than a friend. A part of her hoped he'd say lover. Frowning, she wondered where that thought came from. Love was for children, and Steve could do better than her.

"A… a friend," he said, the smile didn't reach his eyes and there was an unusual look in his sky blue eyes. A pang of hurt — guilt? Regret? — stung in her sternum. It was the answer she was expecting but wasn't hoping for.

"Oh," she said. "I'm glad we're friends Steve." The coffee tasted like ash in her mouth. This was stupid. Getting worked up over a status like this. It was better this way, keeping a comfortable distance between them. A friend was less of a liability than a lover. A lover could compromise her. The Red Room proved that to her before.

"Me too." Steve leaned back, one hand flat against the tabletop, the other curled around the mug's hand. For a moment, she wished he held her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. He took a long swallow of coffee. "So, since all the members of my barber shop quartet are dead," Steve said, drawing nonsense patterns on the tabletop, "my schedule's pretty open Saturday night."

She lifted her coffee mug, brow arching as she studied him. Taking a sip, she hummed in acknowledgement. "Sad you aren't doing anything fun then," she said, flicking her gaze to his face. He really did look good with a beard. She wanted to run her fingers through it, feel it tickle against her cheek and throat and between her thighs. Exhaling sharply through her nose, she took another sip of coffee in a poor effort to distract herself from imaging Steve eating her out. For some reason, he seemed like the type of man that would enjoy eating his girlfriend out. She narrowed her eyes. Steve bowed his head, looking like a kicked puppy.

"Well the thing is," he began, sounding hesitant and awkward, "I was wondering if you'd… like to do something fun with me on Saturday."

She set her mug down and stared at him. The clunk it made when it met the tabletop felt louder than it was. Was he asking her out? That was — _ballsy_ of him. Not that friends couldn't hang out and do things on a Saturday night. "What about Sharon? You haven't called her."

Steve squared his shoulders, sitting up straighter in the chair. "Nor am I going to," he said, "I told you yesterday why I didn't call her."

 _She wasn't you._ Closing her eyes, she sighed, looking just over his shoulder at the Manhattan skyline, watching the city that never sleeps lumbering into another day, groggy and resentful that the night had ended too early. Another pigeon flew past the window; the sky now the palest shade of blue, autumn giving way to winter — nature waiting for the cold's killing blanket of ice and snow. "I'm not the type of woman you take on a date," she whispered, interlocking her fingers around her mug, trying to find a comfortable position to hold it that didn't feel weird. "I'm not the type of woman you date, Steve."

"Wasn't asking you out, Nat," he said, grabbing her hand. " And even if I was, I don't care about what you did in your past — the red in your ledger; Natasha. You aren't that woman anymore" — he smiled — "you are brave and kind and selfless. You're willing to put your life on the line for the good of the world. You use the skills you learned to do good now. The lives you help save more than make up for the lives you took." He brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "I'm proud to call you my friend." The look in her eyes told her that he had wanted to call her something more.

She wanted to believe him, wanted to give into his idyllic version of her that he painted. Reality told a different story: she would never been the hero he saw her for she was drenched in blood and no matter how long she scrubbed, she would never be clean. "I'm sorry Steve," she said. Better to nip this — _thing_ in the bud before it got outta hand. Love is for children, emotions were weaknesses she couldn't afford. The Black Widow was made of marble — _she_ was made of marble. Any budding affection she may have for Steve would just compromise her further — something she _couldn't_ allow. Better to steer him in the direction of someone that would love him, be good for him, give him everything he deserved (like a family — God, she couldn't even give him children. A man like him would surely want children someday). As much as it hurt, she knew this was the right thing to do. She pulled her hand away, tucking them both beneath her arms. "But that's the difference between you and me" — a smile curved her lips, her eyes downcast — "we're better off just staying friends."

The muscles in his throat constricted as he swallowed, his face an impassive mask. For the first time, she couldn't get a read on him. Normally, he wore his heart on his sleeve, allowing her to read him like an open book, but now — well, even the most open people were able to hide their secrets. If her words hurt him, she couldn't tell. "Oh." He blinked, his blue eyes a somber slate, and he took another sip of coffee. "I see." His sigh broke the uncomfortable silence. "Why ruin a good thing, huh?" She was beginning to understand that when he smiled to the side, he was protecting himself, putting up his own walls to protect his all too vulnerable heart.

"Yeah" — she smiled with a jaunty tilt of her head — "I mean… friends hang out and do fun things on Saturdays." His eyes fell to her finger that traced the rim of her cup. A playful smirk spread across her lips, as she watched his Adam's apple bob with his swallow, eyes flicking down to the strawberries between them. Red and succulent in their pristine white bowl.

"So," he said, grabbing a bulbous looking strawberry and squirting some whipped cream on top of it, "you wanna do something Saturday — as friends?" he asked, offering her the berry.

Leaning on her elbows, she nodded. "Yeah, sounds like a plan." And she opened her mouth to accept the phallic looking strawberry. Grinning, he brought it closer and her lips erotically molded around it.

"Oh" — Natasha slid her gaze from Steve to their unwanted interloper — "Sorry, didn't know you two were busy," Carol said, a sly smirk on her lips. Her face turned red as she pulled away, the berry still in her mouth — Steve having let go of the green top. Carol's name came out enraged and muffled and she bit down on the berry, red juice oozing out of the corner of her mouth.

"Carol!" she said, the half-eaten berry in her palm and she glared at her friend. Carol smirked, squaring her shoulders a little. "Don't you know how to knock?" From the corner of her eye, she saw Steve get up and clear the table, his face red. The dish clattered in the sink, the water rushing as he turned it on to rinse them.

"Army," Carol said, taking Steve's abandon seat and plucking a strawberry from the bowl. "Pepper always manages to get the best produce." She twisted the berry around before biting it, leaving only the little green top.

"Air Force," Steve said over his shoulder as he busied himself in cleaning up his mess. "Did you have a good Halloween? Nat, told me about Stark's party."

"You missed it," Carol said, "it was a blast."

"I already told him," Natasha said, finish her coffee. Carol grinned, blue eyes dancing with mirth. "Did you need something?"

"What? A girl can't check in on her bestie after a night of partying without wanting something?" Carol tapped the corner of her mouth. "You got whipped cream right here, hon."

A scowl colored her face; she wiped the cream off. Steve finished cleaning up his mess. "I'm going to get going," he said, yawning. "Get some sleep."

She slipped off her stool. "I'll walk you to the door," she said, shooting another look at Carol and followed Steve to the door. The half-minute trip from the kitchen to her door felt shorter than what it was. The door hissed opened, the hallway bright with sunlight, the LED runner lights off until sunset. Steve stood in the hallway, his leather jacket folded over his arms. "Thanks for the pancakes," Natasha said. He smiled.

"Of course," he said. "Any time."

Nodding, she rubbed her arm, wishing she could tell him to stay, offer him her bed. "I did miss you," she said, her voice soft, glancing at her bare feet. The nail polish from her pedicure at the end of September was almost gone, and she wondered if getting it redone was worth it. Especially with winter just around the corner, who would appreciate her painted toenails.

"I missed you too," he said, leaning against the door frame. "Sorry, I didn't call."

A curt nod. "It's fine" — it wasn't — "we were both busy."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Busy chasing shadows and ghosts." He ran his hand through his hair. "I pulled on that string." She arched a brow. "You were right, I should've been more careful."

"I'm sorry," she said, reaching out and rubbing his arm. "I know how much Barnes means to you and…" she stopped, wondering what to say next. "He'll turn up. You'll find him, bring him home."

"Can he even come home after what Hydra did to him?" Steve asked, the pain clear in his eyes. "Is my best friend even in there still?" Fear was there too. Fear that the man he remembered as Bucky Barnes was gone for good. Natasha knew that in a way he was and she also knew in a way he wasn't. 

"He is, Steve," she said, "he's just buried beneath a lot of blood and hate. He needs you to help him claw his way out. You'll find him. I know you will."

Steve bowed his head and nodded. "What about you?" he looked up at her. "Did you make a new cover?"

"Yeah." A little shrug. "Went to Russia." And found her parents. Two little unmarked graves by a chain-link fence with a few stubborn weeds growing there. She pulled the weeds, placed some flowers, and wondered about the people beneath her feet. "Established a new cover."

"Good for you." He patted her on the shoulder with a smile. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, later" — she returned the smile, watching him head down the hall — "hey Steve?"

"Hm?"

"We… wanna pick up where we left off on your movie catch up? I think we were doing mid-90s Disney animation. I'll bring the beer if you bring the pizza?"

The smile didn't reach his eyes as he shook his head. "Probably not to night, but I'll let you know. See you around, Nat." He walked down the all and she watched him until he rounded the curve. Sighing, she slipped back into her room and returned to the kitchen; Carol had finished the strawberries in the bowl, their little green tops piled up on a napkin.

"You know," she said, after swallowing, "it's okay to want him." Carol stood up, gathering the berry tops and taking them to the trash. She poured herself a cup of coffee. Natasha watched as her hands turned a molten gold and steam curled up out of the cup. "I mean, you and Matt haven't —"

"Shit." Natasha rubbed her forehead. She forgot about Matt. Not that it really mattered — well it did and it _should_ , but it didn't. They're relationship took off right after the Battle of New York and then she got transferred to DC in January of 2013 with Steve. Not that she had a problem with long distance relationships, but for some reason it proved harder with Matt. "Matt."

Carol chuckled, smirking as she took a sip of her hot coffee. "Poor Matt," she said, "I guess he can't really compare to Captain America."

"Matt's a good man," she said. A good boyfriend, even if he was spotty on date nights (discounting last night) and skyping (she'd forgive the latter, he was blind after all). "Besides, Steve and I are just friends." Carol arched a brow at that. "What?"

"Nothing." Carol took another sip of her coffee. "Nothing at all."

"I can have a boyfriend and a friend that's a man," she insisted. Carol shrugged. Scowling, she stopped over to the fridge, yanking it open and staring at it, letting the cold air wash over her. The conversation Carol wanted to start was one she didn't want to have. Not with Carol, not with Clint, and certainly not with Steve or Matt. In all honesty, these feelings that welled up inside her whenever Steve was around or brought up in a conversation posed a liability. Not just to her but also to him, any potential mission they worked on, the Avengers. Emotions, she learned during her childhood, only compromised a person. A compromised person — no, she was never a person, she was a tool — spelled failure. The Black Widow never failed. "I love Matt," she said, trying to convince herself; closing the door and ignoring the bitter taste of the words on her tongue. Hanging on the fridge was a picture of her and Matt in Central Park just before she left for DC. He wore a wool overcoat, his red tie peaking out at the top, she was pressed against his side, a parka on with a fur lined hood. The afternoon sunlight made the red of his glasses look like blood. They were smiling, happy.

"Natasha," Carol said, coming to stand by her. There was sympathy — no, pity — in Carol's tone. She frowned, as she pushed the magnet away, the picture fluttering in her hand. The glossy image caught the morning light, a white spot appearing over Matt's face.

"I'm fine," she said, folding the picture into quarters. "Promise." She smiled at her friend. "Really." Carol nodded, reaching out and rubbing her hand up and down Natasha's spine. The action was gentle and soothing, and she leaned into her friend's touch. "I'll be fine."

"I know," Carol said. "I know."

Natasha stayed there, allowing Carol to comfort her. After a few moments she took a breath, gathering herself and tamping down her emotions and locking them away. The breakable ones had emotions, and she was made of marble. Marble didn't possess a heart.

* * *

Hell's Kitchen always reminded her of something gritty and sleezy, like an old timey noir movie location. Crime seemed to bubble around every corner, like an oozing infection: whores with hollow empty eyes, junkies with dead eyes as they sat tucked between overflowing garbage cans, homeless bums staring up at nothing as they muttered to themselves; as the normal people tiptoed around them, not looking at the putrid underbelly of their city. Even the building of Matt's apartment looked decrepit and run down. The paint on the door was peeling, the hinges squeaking, and the stairs creaking as she took them two at a time. The hall leading to his apartment felt like it belonged in a horror movie, the wood worn smooth from countless years of foot traffic and the one window behind her was so caked with dust, cobwebs and grime that the light pouring through was grey and muted. She knocked on the dark green door. "Matt?" she called, though she didn't know why. He probably picked up her heartbeat as soon as she was within three feet of the building, her perfume as soon as she entered the door. The lock clicked free and the door opened with an eerie whine .

"Natasha," Matt said, his carrot orange hair askew. He wore a grey t-shirt and matching sweatpants, eyes a milky blue and constantly rolling up as if searching for light they will never be able to find. He held his head to the side, one ear facing her. "Come in," he said, gesturing to the living room.

"Thanks," she said as she smiled and stepped in. A woman's leather jacket hung on the back of the couch and she wondered if his homicidal ninja-skank was back messing up his life. Then she saw the crochet blanket, the tasseled throw pillows, pictures on the tabletop of him and Karen, some of them had Foggy in the photo as well. A few Christmas cacti sat cutely on the windowsill, their blooms starting to bud. A pair of worn tennis shoes and second-hand flats sat by the door next to his shoes. The shoes, the décor: Definitely not Elektra's.

"Coffee?" Matt asked as he closed the door and walked towards the kitchen, one hand trailing against the wall. "Make yourself at home." He turned the electric kettle on and grabbed two cups and a canister of instant coffee. Taking her jacket off, she sat down with a sigh, having to remind herself to always make a little bit of noise. The billboard outside his window changed, it was annoying at night: bright and neon and would keep people awake. Matt got the apartment at a discount because of it. "I heard about Shield."

"Permanently in New York," she said. "Getting used to everything, I hate moving. All the unpacking and figuring out where to put stuff. But, since I'm living at Avengers Tower, Pepper had workers deal with all that stuff — minus the unpacking. That's still on me."

Matt grinned, spooning instant coffee into the cups. "Better that way, huh." The kettle popped, and he shuffled over to grab it, pouring the hot water into the cups and stirring them. The canvas door that led to his bedroom open and a blonde woman came out, wearing a pair of pale turquoise pajamas with cute little otters on them. Natasha arched a brow, and glanced at Matt, who gave a nonchalant shrug.

"Karen." Natasha stood up, smiling at the other woman blithely. It was clear that this was a wasted trip. Truth be told, her relationship with Matt died the day she moved to DC.

"Natasha," Karen said, eyes widening a little, "hi." She smiled a bit and wrapped one arm beneath her breasts, her other hand going to cradle her throat. The other woman's eyes darted about, from Natasha to Matt to the furniture around the apartment then back to Matt. The same way a rabbit could sense a cat is a predator; normal people could sense that she was dangerous, a killer waiting to strike. They tended to get nervous around her without realizing it. "Wasn't expecting you to show up" — Karen swallowed, she bit her lip for half a heartbeat, tugging at the little cross pendant around her neck. It was gold, with a diamond chip in the center — "Wha... wha... what are you doing here?" Karen asked, licking her lips. "S-Sorry we missed the party." 

"Don't worry about it," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "It was a typical Halloween party." She glanced at Matt. "I didn't expect you to go for the most obvious cliché, Matthew."

Matt gaped at her like a fish, only to abandon the coffee with a chuckle and walk over to Karen's side. "Natasha, as you can see — Karen and I are dating," Matt said wrapping an arm around Karen's waist. With Matt at her side, Karen seemed to relax, convinced that Matt would protect her. "I'm sorry I... sorry you had to find out like this."

Natasha felt her lips twitch upward, watching as Karen slipped a hand beneath Matt's shirt. The intimacy between them was sweet — special even; and watching them, she realized that she wanted that too — wanted that with Steve. "It's fine, Matt," she said, standing up and running her hand along the throw on the back of the couch. It was one of those personalized ones, with pictures of Karen and Matt. The material was soft and velvety beneath her fingers. "I came to tell you it's over between us," she said, looking up at him, "though I suppose it's been over for a long time anyway. Probably was nothing really to begin with. I'm happy for you."

"Oh." Matt's lips quirked up into a sad smile. "It just happened… when you left for DC… one thing lead to another and… Karen and I—" he pulled away from Karen, walking towards Natasha. "I should've told you." He took her hand in both of his, squeezing her fingers. She smiled, tracing his palm.

"It's fine Matt," she said. "I just wanted to let you know that it's over between us. So both of us can get on with our lives, and not feel like we owe each other something when there's nothing between us anymore."

Matt nodded. "I understand." He lifted his head, though his gaze was slightly to her left. "I guess we work better as friends, then lovers."

She pulled her hand free from his, kissing his palm, and then pulled him close, her lips brushing against his ear: "Listen to me Matthew, and listen well. You deserve to be loved and content and fulfilled in your personal life, because your life as Daredevil" — she felt him tense when she whispered that name, she had known for a long time that he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, she was a world class spy after all — "will never offer you purchase from the storm. You need a place to hang your heart at the end of the day. You need peace; but look within yourself for that peace before you look for it in someone else. Because you'll only be setting up that someone else for disappointment." She kissed the spot next to his ear and turned to Karen. "Take care of him, okay? He has a quiet, noble heart. Treasure it."

Karen nodded. "I will" — she looked at Matt, warmth and love in her eyes — "I already do." She slipped between Natasha and Matt, snuggling against his side. "If you need any legal help, Nelson and Murdock will be more than happy to provide legal assistance."

Natasha laughed. "Well, I know where to find the two best avocados in New York then," she said. Matt laughed, pressing a kiss to Karen's temple, resting his nose in her hair. "Take care you two."

"Bye, Natasha," Matt said as she opened the door. It clicked behind her and she could smell the sour stench of vomit wafting up from the floor below. A sigh escaped her lips and she trotted down the stairs, resting at the bottom and titled her head back against the sticky wall and glanced up the stairs. It had gone better than expected and if she was honest with herself — which she never was — her relationship with Matt ended when she left for DC back in 2013. Still, the sting of a break up felt sharp in her chest, right behind her sternum. Matt was the one of the only men she ever really let touch her — both in a physical sense and an emotional one. There was a special something about Matt Murdock and she hoped Karen understood it and treasured it. Closing her eyes, she realized that Steve always had that special something about him too; a truly noble heart. A pity, really, that she was who she was. A shadowy spider, helplessly drawn towards the light of truth and honesty. Running a hand down her face, she left the apartment building, heading back to Avengers Tower.

* * *

Emotions complicated things. That was what the Red Room taught her, why they taught her to lock away her heart, but she figured that her heart was too big and eventually oozed out of whatever chains and prisons she built for it. It was this heart of hers that hurt and when it hurt, she didn't know how to soothe it. When she got back to Avengers Tower after visiting Matt, she realized she couldn't go in there and instead hailed a cab and wandered around New York until the sun began to set. The familiar whap-whap-whap of punches landing against the leather of a punching bag filled the gym. It was empty, everyone gone for the evening.

As she stood in the nearly empty gym, she could see the dust motes dancing in the aureate beams of the dying sunlight, Steve's long shadow on the opposite wall. Two years of working with him at Shield had made her accustomed to how his muscles contracted just before he threw a punch, the soft grunt he let out whenever his fist connected with the bag and how he shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. Little tells someone would never be able to pick up, but she had keen eyes and training in picking up on these small details nobody would think to look for. She swallowed, her mouth dry, pulse racing in her veins. Slowly, she walked towards him, noticing the light sheen of sweat and how it dampen his flaxen hair. "Steve," she called, voice soft and melodious.

His fists dropped, the bag swayed back towards him and he stopped it with a hand, before turning to look at her with a flush face, the golden color of his beard stark against his sweaty skin. She bit her lip. "Nat." He gave her a nod in greeting. "Where have you been?" he asked, pushing some of his sweat damp hair out of his eyes. "Starting to worry."

A fleeting smile passed across her lips. "Thanks, but you don't need to worry about me." She leaned against one of the tall steel support beams, the sharp angle iron cutting into the muscles by her spine. "I can take care of myself."

A shrug. "Still doesn't mean I won't worry." A small grin, and he went back to punching the bag. _Bop… bop-bop. Bop… bop-bop-bop._ Dust motes rose up with each strike, the heavy sigh escaping his lips, sweat gleaming on his skin in the dying golden light of the setting sun. Natasha could feel the sharp tattoo of her pulse in her carotid artery. It was a unique pain: the pain of pretending to be friends with someone special; when every time she looked at Steve, all she saw was everything she wanted to have. The silence between them hung heavy in the air, broken only by the sounds of Steve's fits hitting the bag and his soft grunts with each punch. His shadow lengthened, the golden glow darkened, and the overhead lights flicked on with a loud booming click. It was a harsh fluorescent light, for a few moments her eyes hurt, and the allure of Steve's body disappeared beneath this intense light. She didn't know why she came here, a part of her wanted to confess to him, tell him she and Matt had broken up, but he didn't even know she was dating Matt in the first place. Steve didn't know much about her private personal life. All he knew was the brief moment of her childhood before the Red Room. It was better this way, better to keep this distance between them. Love is for children. A puff of breath escaped her lips as she turned to walk away. "Nat?"

She stopped, looking over her shoulder at Steve. He stared back at her, his brow furrowed slightly with worry. She gave him a reassuring smiling — the Red Room taught her how to fake feelings and she was damn good at it — "I'm fine, Steve."

A nod. The sound of fists striking leather filled the air once again and she left, leaving pieces of her heart along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel 
> 
> Thank you everyone for being patient with me. I'm still trying to get into a groove and I write the chapters long hand before transcribing. I want to be a few chapters ahead (working on chapter six right now), before I post them so I don't get behind. It takes me about a week to write a chapter long hand.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.
> 
> PS: Kudos are welcomed, reviews are loved. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	4. Hallelujah

The bag went flying, the seams bursting and sand hissing out on the floor. For a long moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his blood in his ears, the heat of it rushing in his veins, the sweat dripping from his brow and the sand hissing out from the bag. Grunting, he swiped at his bangs, walked over to the pile of punching bags and selected another one. A melodious metallic rattle echoed through the empty gym and he resumed pummeling the bag. "That's the fourth bag you've destroyed, Captain," JARVIS said.

"I know," he said, the words coming out in a gasp. Night had settled in like a bird coming home to roost. The fluorescent lights felt harsh against his eyes that stung with sweat. The bag swayed with each punch, the chains creaking. It felt so strange: being back in New York, knowing that Bucky was alive, Peggy dying, Howard dead, the Commandos dead, Shield gone. The sounds of battle — the rat-ah-tat-tat and the brrrup-brrup-brup of machine gun fire, screams of men dying, smell of blood and earth and shit, lifeless eyes staring back at nothing, adrenaline rushing through his veins, shield flying, grotesque creatures from the farthest reaches of the universe, a glowing blue hole in the sky as if God tore the heavens asunder, a god from mythology and a giant green monster full of rage. A cry freed itself from his throat, the bag went flying, seams bursting and letting the sand free.

"Number five," JARVIS said, "maybe you should call it a night, Captain." The AI's posh British voice filled the empty gym. Steve looked over his shoulder, remembering where Natasha stood a few hours ago. He hadn't seen her all day, not since breakfast — which felt awkward. Ever since he first met Natasha, there was something about her that drew him to her: like a moth to a flame. The fact they found him frozen in the ice didn't seem to phase her nor the fact that he was _Captain America_. It felt like it was another day at the office, as if she had seen super soldiers before. He felt at ease in her company, as if she wouldn't judge him. Thinking about it — being with Natasha felt like being with Peggy. A little smile spread across his face as he wiped away the sweat with a towel. When Natasha had used his shield to vault onto a Chitauri cruise, something inside him swelled. There was a brief spark of fear in her eyes, but she had told him it would be fun, and she had used the cruiser's own pilot to fly the thing.

Once transferred to DC, he was glad that she was with him. For a while though, she seemed distant, as if something was bothering her, but he figured that in time she would tell him. She never did, but despite that they became friends. It was her suggestion that he keep a little notebook to jot down things he wasn't familiar with. Saturday nights soon became pizza and movie night, steadily working through Disney classics. Hot summer months spent with her helping him figure out how to fix his broken air conditioning, putting together IKEA furniture — because how dare he have cookie-cutter furniture picked out for him by Shield — laughing about the Tony and Thor's antics, bowling when Carol visited, going to the bar with Clint. With Natasha, he didn't feel so alone. Some Sundays, she even went to church with him and told him she had gone to confession at a Russian Orthodox church back in New York once or twice. It was safe to say he had a friend, a real friend in this time.

Then Project Insight happened, the search for Bucky with Sam, and now he was back in New York with Natasha and everything felt different. That was the feeling he got when he left the gym and headed back to his room: different. Was it a good different or a bad different? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that it was different. For a long while he stared at the keypad in the elevator. On the top was Tony's Iron Man mask — the penthouse suite where he and Pepper lived, labs below that for him and Bruce, below the labs was a radiation hazard symbol for where Bruce lived, followed by more labs, the medical wing, Carol's wing (symbolized by the Hala starburst), the communal floor for parties and get-togethers. Thor's hammer marked his room, a bow and arrow for Clint (though he was hardly in his personal floor), the red hourglass for Natasha's floor and below that was his shield. The red hourglass called to him like a beacon and his thumb hovered over it for a moment before pressing his shield. "You could've just asked," JARVIS said, and Steve thought the AI felt annoyed.

"You know me," he said with a grin, "I'm a bit old fashioned." The elevator hummed as it ascended the levels. The city's lights twinkling as he climbed higher, cars zipping along down the streets, shadowy dark dots — people walking along the sidewalk — orange glowing orbs of light dotting the East River as merchant vessels and ferries made their way through the piano black waters. As a boy, he and Bucky would fish off the docks on the river under the watchful eye of Mr. Barnes, the longshoremen and the dock hands waving to them, steam ships belching thick black coal smoke into the air as they sailed by. Times were tough for him as a boy in the 1920s and 30s, but before the market crash, he remembered an air of prosperity. Often times he remembered telling his mother that one day he'll live on the Manhattan side of the river, on the Upper East Side, where all the socialites and businessmen lived. "I did it, Mam," he whispered, resting his fingertips on the glass.

The elevator dinged, the doors sighing open on his floor. The LED runner lights alternated between red, white and blue. Tony felt it was hilarious to constantly remind him of his patriotic moniker. Sighing, he walked down the hall — Captain America memorabilia that Howard kept lining the walls. At least this was only in the hallway, he had full creative control of the interior of the suite of rooms belonging to him. The door to his room sighed opened, outwardly spartan in appearance, everywhere was a personal touch: books covering the Roaring 20s, the Great Depression, WWII, the years following. Biographies on Eisenhower, Roosevelt, Patton, MacArthur, Nimitz, Churchill and de Gaulle. Fiction titles from Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, _New York: The Novel_ by Edward Rutherfurd, among other historical fiction set in New York and the middle of the 20th Century. Within the pages of the biographies he had slipped a few hundred dollars (this irked Tony when he found out, but old habits die slow, painful deaths).

A couch to one corner, facing a sixty-inch flat screen tv (complimentary perk from Stark Industries). A door on either side the wall leading to his art studio (near the windows so he could get the best natural light), and one to his bedroom and the master bath. The bedroom was spacious — a little bigger than his apartment before the army — with a king size bed in the center, with grey pima cotton sheets. A mahogany night stand with pictures of Peggy, Howard, and Bucky. A group photo of the Avengers, and a few pictures of him and Natasha touring DC. Sitting there between Peggy's picture and one of Natasha holding a little American flag in front of the Statue of Liberty, tarnished with wear, was his compass. He walked over to his nightstand, touching the compass. It amazed him that it survived seventy years in the ice with him. Peggy stared back at him.

 _The world has changed and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best, and sometimes our best is to start over._ Her words echoed in his head; have been echoing in his head ever since Project Insight. There was a thin layer of dust on her picture frame, the light from the white LED runners in the room glinted off the protective glass. The bed squeaked as he sat down and picked up his compass, digging a nail beneath the thin space between the two halves, he popped it open. Peggy's picture stared back at him, the newspaper a yellowish brown with age. The room was silent save for his breathing, the electrical hum of the wiring in the walls, and the pulse of the city outside. The piece of newspaper came free easily when he pushed it up with the pad of his thumb. Setting the compass in his lap, he took Peggy's picture and popped the back off. Written in iron gall ink, the letters had a rusty look to them: _Margaret "Peggy" Carter, April 1944._ He tucked the newspaper clipping into the lower right-hand corner and replaced the back of the photograph. For a long moment, he stared at the picture of Peggy, the variance in the shades of grey and white creating the colors he remembered: chestnut for her hair, hazel for her eyes, ivory for her skin, rose red for her lips, the pale cream of her blouse, the jasmine of her perfume. The slow smooth notes of jazz drifting through the noisy bar — another life, another time. He put the picture back, slipped the compass into the drawer and went to take a shower.

Afterwards, he shaved. Without the beard he looked years younger, like the naïve courageous young man he was when he joined. Erskine said that the serum will increase his life span two-fold, slow his rate of aging. Erskine had _generously_ estimated he'd live to see his — at the very least — two hundredth birthday. The very idea opened a bottomless pit in his stomach. The sting of the aftershave as he patted it onto his cheeks brought him back to reality. The lights clicked off when he left the bathroom and he crawled into bed, the sheets soft against his skin. The shadows twisting and coiling about in the darkness on the ceiling, he tried to follow their serpentine patterns. A siren blared somewhere outside, for a moment he wondered where it was heading, what was going on, who needed help, but the sound eventually faded. The stillness of the night slowly encroached, his limbs began to grow heavy with sleep. He glanced over at the pictures on his night stand, reaching out for them. The soft click of the frame meeting wood sounded profound like someone decisively snapping a book close. Rolling onto his side — his back facing the pictures — he heard the gurgle of leftover water fall from the shower head, the leaky faucet in his bathroom created an eldritch lullaby: _Drip… drop… drip… drop…_

_… splish… splash… splish… splash…_

_…plip… plop… plip… plop…_

A crack like thunder that split ice asunder, freezing water rushing in through the seams, the crackle of the radio: _Steve? Steve! Steve!_ Then static with soft sobs cutting in and out. Water — cold and grey-green — burst forth through the window, the icy shock enough to wake him up. Another thunderous crack, water gushing into the Valkyrie in freezing torrents. Numb fingers gripped the straps of his shield and fumbled with putting his compass into his pocket. One last desperate gasp of air, the golden rays of the morning the last thing he saw: _Peggy… I'm sorry…_

 _Steve help me…_ her voice a soft distant cry. Reaching for her through the gloomy water. So far away, so deep and dark and lost. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't reach her. Once young hand withered before his eyes, knobby knuckles prominent on his hands. _Steve help me… please!_ The glow of her eyes faded into the depths of the sea. Tendrils of shadows coiling around him as another shape emerged from the watery depths.

Bucky thrashed, blue eyes filled with hatred and his metal arm glinting bright and silver, the red star the same shade of fresh split blood. _I hate you Steve!_ He hissed, the tentacles of darkness dragging him deeper. _You let me fall! You did this to me! This is all your fault! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!_ The shadowy kraken pulled Bucky further into the depths of the sea, and no matter how hard he tried to swim towards his friend, the icy cold sapped his strength, atrophied his muscles, lungs burning with the need for air. The churning of the sea echoed around him, like a great heart pumping blood through a titanic body. Bucky's venomous hate lingering in his ears. Panic filled him and then…

…Darkness. Cold and wet — _…splish… splash… splish… splash…_ — a watery scream, bubbles escaping his lips as the salt water stung his eyes. Limbs heavy with cold, a dull thud as the Valkyrie caught on something in the water. A curious fish swam close then away. Lungs burning with the need to breathe, too cold to swim, sleep called to him — a sweet and blissful siren's song — his back met the controls, eyes closing against the sting of sea water. _Lub… dub… lub… dub… lub… dub… plip… plop… plip… plop…_

Tears falling onto a pale hand, blue veins rigid against sickly flesh. "Mam…" he forced out, running his thumb over her gnarly knuckles. Sarah looked like an old lady at forty, a tragedy really. Blood speckled the corners of her mouth; a wet raggedy sound came shuddering out with each breath. "Mam… please…" the words felt painful, as if he was forcing them out of his chest. Sarah weakly squeezed his hand.

"Stevie" — her voice weak, a whispery sound, he had to move closer just to hear her — "Stevie… listen carefully."

"Okay, Mam," he said, blinking through his tears. A quick glance at the somber doctor, his large hands clasped around his stethoscope and leather medical bag. Sarah coughed, a wet painful sound, more blood splattering her lips. Tenderly, he took the blood speckled handkerchief and wiped his mother's lips.

"Stevie…" Sarah said, pulling her hand away to cup his cheek. "My good boy… my good kind boy…" she gave him a sad smile. "Remember, Stevie, a strong… a strong heart will take you further" — another wet cough — "than any physical strength."

"Mam—"

Sarah shook her head. "Remember Stevie, please. A strong heart means you'll never quit." She wiped away a tear, tracing his cheekbone. "My good sweet boy. I love you."

Only by jamming his teeth into his lip could he keep from crying. "I love… I love you too, Mam. Please… don't leave me," he whispered, vaguely aware of the doctor moving, pressing his stethoscope against Sarah's chest. "Mama?" He shook her. "Mama!"

"I'm sorry son," the doctor said, "but she's gone." Tears fell on the old quilt that smelled of rain and earth and the sea, of the Old Country — Ireland — … _drip… drop… drip… drop…_

_…splish… splash… splish… splash…_

Gurgling water. A salty taste on his tongue. Bright lights and the painful alien sensation of something down his nasal passage and into his throat; another bulky foreign object wedged into his mouth. Why did his limbs feel so lethargic with skin that felt clammy cold? Humanoid shapes in puffy garments, black masks and goggles staring back at him superimposed against bright harsh lights that glinted off those eerie goggles. Panic flooded him as he tried to scream, bubbles burbling up around his head. Thin silver needles appearing from the sides of the tank, inching towards him. Muffled voices calling to him: _Captain. Captain. Captain._

_…plip… plop… plip… plop…_

_…splish… splash… splish… splash…_

_…drip… drop… drip… drop…_

The scent of fresh linen hit his nose, the taste of cotton in his mouth, another gasping breath and he coughed, opening his eyes to his dark bedroom, the leaky faucet loud in the darkness. "Jesus," he muttered, rubbing his forehead against his palm. The nightmare caused him to shudder; he felt cold. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Captain?" the AI asked.

"Temperature?"

"It's currently seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, and your current core temperature is around a hundred and two degrees, which by my calculations would be considered normal for you." There was a pause. "Anything else Captain? Would you like me to increase the ambient temperature in the room?"

The cold feeling was psychological. Whenever he dreamed of the ice, he woke up feeling cold. A lingering after effect, the Shield psychologist had said. It would go away in time, once he came to terms with that part of his life. The thing he never told the headshrinkers was that he doubted he'll ever come to terms with being frozen; that against all odds, he didn't die — though he remembered his heart stopping, his lungs burning with the need for air, the world going dark and all consciousness slipping through his fingers like sand — but merely was suspended in time. Groaning, he got up, padding his way to his dresser and pulling on an old SSR t-shirt and headed out into the living room.

The clock on the microwave flashed the time: one twenty-one in the morning. Nausea churned in his stomach, his skin felt prickly and clammy. Off balance — that's what he felt like. Running a hand through his hair, he left his quarters and made his way to the elevator. For a moment he stared at the buttons, wondering if he should go the gym and punch a bag until the feelings left him. Natasha had found him at the gym that evening. He pushed her button and the elevator came to life, the doors sighing shut and the car humming as it ascended to the next floor.

Natasha's floor was dark, save for the runner lights. The carpet beneath his feet, plush and warm. The door opened automatically for him, something that had him cocking a brow and made a mental note to ask Natasha about later. Inside, her suite of rooms were dark, the only sources of light came from the window — the orangey yellow glow of the city lights that twinkled in an electrical mockery of stars — and the pale blue-white glow of the tv. He rounded the dividing half-wall, her living room filled with that soft tv white glow. Natasha was sitting on the couch — well, she was really balancing on her feet, her body folded up like a lightning bolt — a part of a pistol in one hand, a small dirty rag in the other. Scents of metal and gun oil filled the room, several guns sat on the coffee table, a dingy white towel in the center with parts of a pistol resting on it. The man on the tv was holding the hands of a pretty woman while he was down on both knees confessing his love to her. "Hey," she said, not taking her eyes away from her work.

"So, this is what you do?" he asked, leaning on the backrest of the couch. "Watch romantic comedies and clean your guns?" Normally, Natasha never watched romantic comedies, she preferred documentaries, dramas, thrillers, and suspense. Her shoulders rose in a nonchalant shrug. A sinking feeling filled his gut.

"What?" she looked down the barrel of her gun. "Girl can't have hobbies?" She draped the rag over the gun and patted the spot besides her. "Wanna see my Netflix play list?"

He sat besides her and with cat like grace she leaned back and kicked her legs out from under her, flopping onto the couch and crossing her legs into the lotus position. "When I'm depressed I bust out the old film projector and newsreels that Peggy kept for me and watch them. When I was in DC I'd go to my museum exhibit and walk around." It felt twisted admitting it; looking at himself — _his life_ — as if it was just another footnote in the annals of history. Thinking about it objectively would make anyone depressed, he realized. "Not everyone can say they enjoy their own museum exhibit." It was a ghoulish quip at his own expense. Still, Natasha smiled at his little black joke, and he chuckled too. "Can't sleep?" he asked, watching the tv — the music swelled to a crescendo, the woman tearfully accepting the man's declaration of love. Natasha twisted the gun about to make sure she got all the spots. "You just clean your guns in the dark?"

"Gotta maintain your weapons," she said, smiling at him. "Not all of us can have a shield we just need to wipe down once a mouth with a damp cloth."

"I have shield polish," he said, mock offense in his voice, "it goes on once a week. I need to keep it shiny, a beckon of patriotism."

An amused grunt escaped her; his smile faltered. "You're full of shit, Rogers" — she slipped off the couch, kneeling in front of the table and with deft movements she assembled her pistol — "You know that?" The light from the tv illuminated her fingers: a fine alabaster, delicate and slender. The gun parts clicked and snapped into place beneath them and he could see the charcoal sketch in his head, the lighting and the shadows contrasting with them. A beautiful dance of shadows. It didn't take a lot to wonder how those fingers felt dancing along his skin, tracing the divots in his abs, the contours of his biceps, tangling in the fine blond hair running down from his bellybutton. He swallowed, though when Natasha didn't turn to look at him, he began to wonder if she was preoccupied with something.

"You okay?" he asked, grabbing his knees. Natasha shrugged, sighting her pistol and pulling the trigger. There was a soft metallic click and she inspected the weapon again before setting it on the table with a soft thud before returning to her seat on the couch besides him.

"Yeah," she said, wiping the gun oil off her hands with a stained ragged. The couple in the movie got married, laughing as they headed to the car with flower petals and rice raining down around them. Though her gaze was fixed on the screen, Natasha didn't seem to be watching the movie. The credits started to role, Netflix asking if she wanted to go to the next movie or not. Mutely, she hit the enter button on the controller and the next movie started to play.

The fanfare came on, loud and brassy as the logos for the studios involved flashed across the screen. The movie's title appeared, and then a beautiful vista of New York's skyline with the names of the stars appearing in childish squiggly writing. "You kinda look like Topher Owens," she said. "You know that?"

"The movie star?" he arched a brow. He'd seen pictures of Topher Owens but failed to see how he resembled the Hollywood Heartthrob. Natasha nodded. "No, I don't."

"Do to." She twisted the pendant of her necklace until the chained tightened at her throat. Then she allowed it to unwind. "What brings you here?" she asked. "Besides to critique my nighttime habits."

Why did he come here? It wasn't like he hadn't dealt with his nightmares before; ever since waking up from the ice and having to deal with an alien invasion — he still struggled to wrap his head around that aliens came out of a hole in the sky over Manhattan — he had suffered nightmares, some even bordering on night terrors. "Can't sleep," he said. "Wanted to..." what? Check up on her? See if she was doing alright? Hell, he can't even explain why he went to her room in the first place. "Thought you may need a friend." 

A smile graced her lips as she shook her head. "You're sweet," she said, "though I've know you long enough to know when you're not being completely straight with me." He swallowed, bowing his head and rubbing at the inner corner of one eye. "They're getting worse, aren't they?" 

Even his smile felt exhausted. How many nights had he worked his body to a state of physical exhaustion just so he could fall into a dreamless sleep? How many nights had he wished he could just pop some pills and sleep without dreaming of dead boys with one too many thumbs and men tearing their faces off to reveal gleaming red skulls? How many nights did he relive freezing alive or watching Bucky fall from a train only to turn around to see the Winter Soldier and feeling that lifeless metallic grip squeezing his throat until he could no longer breath. How many nights had he stared at the uncanny city trying to fuse together his memories of New York with the city he now saw. Everything he fought for — threw his life away for — ended up being meaningless. Peggy was trapped within the fading maze of her mind, Howard and the Commandos dead, Bucky only a shell of himself. Sometimes after waking up from the bad dreams, he wished he had actually died or that they never found him in the ice. It was in the middle of the night, when he allowed his mind to sift through his memories that the stark reality of his life sucker punched him in the gut: He was a man out of time. "Thanks." He took her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. "You okay?" he asked. Natasha nodded. "When Sam and I were looking for Bucky... I uh... I would sometimes wake up from my nightmares. Sam encouraged me to talk about them" — he licked his lips — "it helped, sometimes." A sigh escaped him. "If you want to talk. I'll listen." 

"I'm fine." She rested her head on his shoulder. Warmth spread through him as Natasha snuggled closer to him, the movie's cheesy dialogue and uplifting soundtrack washing over them. After about an hour, Netflix asked if they were still watching and he selected no and turned the tv off. Easing Natasha into his arms, he went to her bedroom and set her on her bed, wiggling the covers back and tucking her in. She made a soft sound, opening her eyes and grabbing his hand. "Stay," she said in a plaintive voice. Swallowing, he looked at her, then down at their joined hands. "Please."

"I'll go sleep on the couch," he muttered, turning to go but her grip on his hand tightened. "Natasha…"

"No, stay with me," she whispered, tugging him closer. "I don't want you to be alone." For a moment his heart skipped a beat, his breath hitching in his throat. Fear prickled along his arms and he wondered if she knew about his nightmares — most likely. Natasha could read him like an open book and he'd let her. Let her thumb through the pages of his life, fingers tracing the words of his life. It was scary, how easy it was for him to bare his soul to her and she didn't even have to ask him to. "Not tonight." It was wrong, she was his friend — best friend — and it was bad enough that he already had feelings for her that went beyond friendship: not that she'll ever know about it. On the other hand, it wasn't like she was asking him to sleep with her, just sleep _next_ to her. There was a difference. "Please, Steve?" An enigmatic smile flickered across her lips. "Neither of us, should be alone tonight."

The soft plea in her voice broke his resolve — she was right, he didn't want to be alone with the ghosts of his past, those haunted frigid memories he tried to melt away. He nodded, walking towards her while she scooted over and patted the now empty space besides her. Slipping into bed, he laid on his back, staring at the ceiling while Natasha tucked herself against his side, one hand coming to rest on his stomach while she pillowed her head on his shoulder. "Night," he said, failing to keep the smile from his lips, though he resisted the urge to drop a kiss to her forehead.

"G'night," she mumbled, her lips brushing his pec. The night seemed to sigh in content as the minutes tick by, he ran his hand up and down her back, feeling the contours of her spine and ribs, how her chest expanded and contracted with each breath. Eventually, her breathing even out, her body relaxing against his touch. Sleep settled upon her and he glanced down at her: her face was relaxed, her brow free of a worry crease. Angelic, she looked angelic in her sleep as if all the horrors of her past were gone. Sighing, he shifted to his side and pulled her closer to his broad chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. The scent of mint and cucumber washed over him. For him, it was the smell of the day at the edge of dusk, that peculiar scent of nostalgia — sweet and crisp, with sharp tangs of warm concrete and asphalt mingling with car exhaust — the type where he felt like he was remembering something that hadn't happened yet. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing in her scent and sleep settled over him like Morpheus covering him with a comforting blanket.

* * *

The last time he slept so deeply, so peacefully had to be before the ice, before the serum, maybe even before his mother died. So long ago he didn't remember. When Natasha's phone rang the next day, it's shrill demanding voice cutting through the haze of his slumber, he knew that he wanted to achieve that deep restful sleep again and wake up with Natasha's comforting weight pressed up against him. Groggily, he picked it up, Natasha didn't so much as stir, save for maybe snuggling closer to him. Squinting he looked at the name on the phone: _Matt Murdock_. Frowning, he swiped up. "Hello?" he croaked out, and then cleared his throat with a cough.

"Tasha, look I'm sorry," the man on the other end of the line said, "I didn't… it… I didn't want our relationship to end the way it did. I appreciate that you wanted to do it face to face, instead of over the phone — I really do! It's just" — a sigh crackled through the phone — "I guess our relationship took a nose dive when you moved to DC. Shame really" — another breathy pause — "we were so good together. You and me. Felt like we could conquer the world, but you… I don't know. Guess there's no point in reminiscing now is there? We're over. Been over for a while, huh?"

"Um—"

"I don't regret it, though," Matt said, steamrolling over Steve's soft sound of protest. "Not going to DC with you. The capital isn't a good place for me, besides — I'm a New Yorker, born and bred. I don't think I've ever left the state" — a chuckle — "not true, I went to Boston for law school. So, there's that. But you know what I mean. Never left New England. Don't think I have it in me to leave. Too much of the city is in me" — a longer pensive pause followed — "I did love you, though, Tasha. But you left and this whole thing with… never mind. Guess our love was — more for me anyway — a love where you realized what you want in a relationship. As much as I care about you and as much as I did love you, I just — I'm not sure how to say this without sounding like a dick — I loved you, Tasha, the way you love someone when you just want to _be_ with someone. You just want someone to come home to at night, to exist with you. And that's not fair to you. And well... the last few years, I just realized that Karen was the _one_ ; that person that made all the awful shit I went through in my life worth it. I felt it in my bones. Her voice sets my blood on fire, her scent — Jesus, it's intoxicating. Even when… when I was a complete ass to her, strung her along — and she had every justifiable reason to bale on me — she didn't. She held on and waited for me to come to my senses, come back to Foggy… and to her. She didn't let go and I… I knew then that she's — I _love_ her Tasha. As for us, well, I just regret we never got to properly end out relationship, so that's why I'm calling. To apologize —"

"Excuse me," Steve said, sitting up, "but who is this and what are you talking about?" The entire one-sided conversation felt rather personal and he wondered if this was what was bothering Natasha the other day. If this was the reason why she was sitting in the dark watching romantic comedies and cleaning her guns. Why she asked him to stay the night.

"Matt Murdock" — there was a pause — "who's this?" he asked.

"Steve Rogers," he said, and glanced at Natasha's sleeping form and felt that familiar green-eyed monster manifest itself, "Natasha's _boyfriend_." The green-eyed monster in his chest settled down behind his sternum with a content purr.

"Oh" — another pause — "is Tasha around? Can I speak to her?"

"Sorry, but she's in the shower at the moment, I'll tell her you called." And he pressed the end call button before Matt could reply. A strange kind of fury pumped its way through his veins, and he had to remind himself to set Natasha's phone down before he crushed it without thinking. The tick-tock of the kitchen clock filled the silence, outside he could hear muffled car horns and a siren or two. The city was waking up, the hustle and bustle starting anew. Running both hands down the side of his nose, Steve glanced up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened, _why_ the hell did he tell Matt he was Natasha's boyfriend. You know damn well why. A little voice hissed in his head. 

Natasha stirred, stretching cat-like and he could see the muscles in her body expand over her bones, see the bulge of her hipbone and ribs. "Morning," she said, reaching up and brushing her fingers along his scruffy jaw. "Who was that on the phone?" she asked, eyes still closed as she basked in warmth of the bed. The question felt rhetorical. There was no way in hell that Natasha didn't wake up to the sound of her phone — she wouldn't be the Black Widow if she slept through her phone ringing. Cold realization settled over his gut, he felt like he was sinking; Natasha had — most likely — heard everything. 

"Some guy named Matt," he said, sounding casual as he took her hand from his face and messaging her fingers. There was a smooth finish to her nails; and he wondered if she put clear nail polish on just for a shine.

"Matt?" There was a cautious edge in her voice as she sat up, covers pulling around her waist. "What did he want?" The sunlight glanced off glass, illuminating her hair and creating a coppery halo around her head. The flush of pink in her cheeks seemed brighter, her green eyes a deeper shade of viridian. For a moment it felt like Uriel had descended from the Heavens and graced her with some of his holy fire; his throat went dry and his hands felt clammy and he wondered if this what the prophets meant when they looked at the glory of God. "Steve?"

With a shake of his head, he broke his train of thought. "Called to apologize about something that happened between you two yesterday." He shrugged. "You can call him back if you want."

"No," she said, pulling her knees close to her chest and looking out the window. "It's okay." A bird fluttered pass, a few leaves twirled in a small cyclone and then up into the air and out of sight. There was a ethereal quality to Natasha, with the light glancing off her hair, illuminating her pale skin — he could see the small freckles along her shoulders and arms, an urge to kiss them came over him, instead he licked his lips and thought about how he'd paint her: starting with a rough sketch on the canvas then maybe using watercolors for a base layer and acrylic for highlights — vermilion for her hair, peach and some ivory for her skin, clam shell pink for her cheeks, a mix of viridian and ivy for her eyes. The silence pressed in around him and he knew better than to press her. When she felt ready, Natasha would tell him what was bothering her. That he had to trust in. "I was married once," she said in a soft voice, a warble of emotion at the end.

"Oh?" He didn't know that. Truth be told, he didn't know a lot about Natasha. A part of him felt she liked it that way, keeping her secrets close. It didn't bother him too much, he kept his fair share of secrets close too. It was better that way, delving into your own head. In your own head only your worst memories and fears plagued you and if you remember that it's all just you — then it's not so bad. Of course, the average person was never raised from childhood to be an assassin nor frozen in ice for seventy years, so he guessed there was that and maybe delving too deep and greedily into his own subconscious could be hazardous. "I didn't know."

"It's not in my file," she said, switching to rest her right cheek on her knees so she could look at him. "A lot of what the Red Room did to me isn't in my file."

"I'm not—"

"I met Matt in 2010 shortly after the Stark Expo — you heard about that?" she asked. Frowning, he shook his head. "It was what? Maybe two years after Tony came out as Iron Man, some crazy Russian attacked him — revenge for what Howard did to his father. You don't happen to know an Anton Vanko by any chance?"

"No." The name didn't sound familiar. If Anton Vanko worked with the SSR then he probably never met the man as whatever science stuff Howard did, he was kept well away from it, Colonel Philips feeling it was best that he stuck to his strengths: throwing his shield at Hydra and punching Nazis. "Then again, I was kept away from all the science stuff." He shrugged. "Howard felt I was more brawn than brains."

Natasha's lips twisted into a frown. "He's wrong."

"Thanks" — he smiled — "but I'll be the first to admit I don't really have a head for all the science stuff. Not the way Tony and Bruce do."

"You aren't dumb, Steve," she said, reaching out and patting his arm. "You're smart in a different way." The gentle reassurance felt nice and his heart swelled just a little bit. "Anyway, after the Stark Expo, Pepper needed a lawyer to fenagle the legal stuff — the law firm representing Stark Industries quit, too many publicity stunts — and since I was still attached to Stark Industries, she had me look for a lawyer. I found Nelson and Murdock, met Matt and we" — a little shrug — "we stared dating."

"Oh."

Natasha sighed, flopping onto her back, her hands resting on her stomach. "Matt was wonderful. He had a sharp wit, knew how to make me laugh. We both had our share of secrets and we never pressed each other about it. There was a danger about him that I felt drawn to, a recklessness that gave me a heady high. I fell hard. Found out his secret and we started… our date nights got more interesting after that" — she looked at him, a mysterious smirk on her face, a playful twinkle in her eyes — "let's just leave it at that."

"Okay." He chuckled, snuggling back down into the bed, propping his head up with his hand. "You loved him didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I guess Matt didn't love me in the same way. I always felt like he was holding back. When I got transferred to DC because of you, he — I asked him to move down with me. Even agreed to set up his best friend, too. Matt turned it down and we" — she shrugged — "I guess Matt didn't love me the same way I loved him."

"I'm sorry Natasha," he said, reaching out and grabbing her hand; thumb brushing her knuckles. "I really am."

"Thanks," she said, "you don't have to be. Not your fault." A heavy sigh escaped her, she sniffed and rubbed her nose. "He was one of the few men I have let touch me."

"Natasha" — he swallowed, not sure what she meant by that. He shifted, pulling her close — "it's his loss."

"Steve—"

"No, listen to me," he said, pushing her away a little so she could look in her beautiful green eyes. Licking his lips, he took a deep breath and continued. "It's Matt's loss. He gave up on you. He gave up on the most extraordinary woman I've ever met. And that's saying something, cause I've met a ton of swell dames in my time. But you take the cake. You're funny, courageous, kind — I've never seen someone so kind and compassionate, especially considering what you went through. I know, I know, I don't know everything, but what you've told me… Jesus, Nat — you've the biggest kindest heart I've ever seen."

"Steve, I—"

"You knew about me, about _Captain America_ and you still just treated me like I was just any other guy at the office. You never expected me to be this… paragon of virtue or this legendary war hero the way Fury and everyone else did. You just… you saw me as Steve, the kid from Brooklyn. And not only that, but you are so brave. I remember when you jumped from my shield onto that Chitauri cruiser, you said it was going to be fun and as you sped away all I could remember thinking about was: _wow, what a woman._ Honestly, you're in another league, doll" — he smiled — "a whole 'nother league. And I really… I—" he stopped, staring at her. It felt like getting punched in the face and the gut at the same time. The sudden realization of what was right in front of him all along. The universe split itself asunder and reformed and he could see clearly for the first time since the ice — maybe the first time in his life: Natasha was who he was waiting for, the right partner. The lump in his throat felt sticky and he swallowed it down with some effort. "So, it's Matt's loss, really, in the long run. He gave up on a swell dame. A real swell dame." He flushed. "Not that you're a — I mean you are a dame — _woman —_ an amazing woman. That's it." A little smile graced his lips, that light feeling spreading out to his fingers and toes, the world clicking into place at long last. In that moment he wished he could rewind time to that moment in the truck when she asked him who he wanted her to be and tell her he wanted her to be his lover instead of his friend. Smiling, he pressed his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses almost touching, and as their breaths mingled together he whispered, "Nat... you're fearless, kind and caring. Simply put, you're one amazing woman and—" Those three little words got stuck in his throat. You don't say that to your friends. You don't feel that way about your friends. It's better this way, Nat and I have a good thing going, don't ruin it because you have no clue how to talk to women. Smiling, he pressed his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses almost touching, and as their breaths mingled together he whispered, "Nat... you're fearless, kind and caring. You're one amazing woman. I... I want to draw you. My hands _itch_ with the need to put your likeness down on paper." An embarrassed flush colored his cheeks at the admission. It almost felt like a confession.

Natasha laughed, an enigmatic smile crossing her face. "You always know what to say to make me feel a better, Steve," she said, reaching out and brushing some hair from his brow. "That's what I like about you." She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "I'm glad we're friends."

The taste of her lingered for a moment, his tongue darted out and he could taste her lips on his. "Yeah," he said, trying not to sound too disappointed. "Me too, Nat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel 
> 
> Much thanks to Reaper_AOD for beta duties and suggestions. 
> 
> And the plot thickens. Stay safe out there guys.
> 
> So back in December I got a new cat. Her name is Evie and she's a sweet, sweet demon child. Turns out she loves to cuddle beneath the blankets with me. Yesterday — since I work the night shift — when I woke up around 20:40, Evie was snuggled up against my chest, between me and my Captain America BAB, with her cute little head resting on my boob, fast asleep. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.
> 
> Chapter 5 will be posted next month.
> 
> PS: Yes, I've made changes to chapters 1 - 3.


	5. Raw

_The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown._ _—_ _H. P. Lovecraft_

* * *

It hurt like hell uttering those four words, especially after the way Steve talked about her. Telling her things nobody had ever told her before: Not Nikolai, not Alexi, not James, not even Matt. There was a sincerity in Steve's voice, a warmth in his eyes that she could only describe with one word: _love_. When did he start seeing her in that new light? Had he always seen her in that light? The mere idea that he could care about her that deeply — beyond a platonic level — scared her. The unknown was dangerous, if she couldn't predict certain reactions, she couldn't control the situation, and that inability to maintain control caused her to fear the unknown.

Love made people do unpredictable things. Love complicated things. Love was never the same twice — even for the same person. Love was this tangled knotted mess of emotions that she didn't have patience to untangle. Yet, she craved it like a sailor lost at sea listening to the sweet distant melody of a siren's song.

After she said those four words, Steve quickly left, stating he had to change for his daily morning run, leaving her to lay in bed, staring at his spot. _I want to draw you_. The way he said that — there was something profound in the revelation. The warmth slowly left the sheets, the mattress sighed back into shape, erasing the divot of his body. The scent of him: the clean freshness of his soap, cedar and cypress, the muskiness beneath it all of leather and sweat — lingered like the last warbling note of a lover's soliloquy. The sun had climbed over the skyscrapers by the time his scent faded, his side of the bed cold and the sheets oddly coarse beneath her palm. Natasha sighed, throwing the covers off and getting out of bed. She intended to take a shower, but instead she splashed some water on her face and ran a comb through her hair. The tower was quiet, it was almost nine in the morning and nobody besides her and Steve got up this early in the morning. She remembered Tony staring at her — mouth hanging open like a dead fish — when she told him she considered sleeping in until nine o'clock a late morning. For a brief moment, the idea of going down and mingling with the city — getting breakfast at a café, watching the New York City ballet do their street performance, meander her way to Central Park — felt tantalizing. Instead, the overwhelming urge to just _hit_ something flooded through her veins and she pulled her hair back and changed into a sports bar and a pair of yoga pants before leaving her suite and going to the gym.

The gym reminded her of Steve. The sweaty plastic smell of the mats, the creak of the swaying punching bags. Dust motes dancing in the golden beams of the morning light, the heating system rumbled softly in the background yet there was still a slight wintery chill in the air. It took her only a few minutes to wrap her hands and then she started hitting the bag, starting with a few light jabs, strikes to disable and stun before applying more force behind her punches. After fifteen minutes she added a kick here and there, grabbing the bag and ramming her knees into the leather, the sand stubbornly ungiving. The blood pumped through her veins, warming the tips of her ears and nose and fingers, sweat beaded at her brow, trickling down her nape and behind her ears.

It was cathartic, imagining the bag was her troublesome heart and she was beating it into submission. There was a tang of metal in her mouth, the saltiness of her own blood. _I want to draw you._ A primal cry tore free of her throat. What gave Steve the right to say that? What made him see her as something _better_? Her ledger was saturated with blood. She didn't deserve to be loved by someone like him. It wasn't fair, she suggested women to him — even Sharon Carter — and he turned them all down because they weren't her. _I'm not afraid of you._ The way he said it, with that same easy confidence when he told her he trusted her — the need to scream burned in her chest. Abandoning the bag, she went to the window and threw it open and screamed into the early morning, scaring a small flock of pigeons before her. What gave him the right to treat her as if she was a person, as if the blood that stained her hands didn't matter, that her past didn't define her. Eventually, she ran out of breath, her throat felt raw, tears mingling with sweat upon her cheeks and she slid down to the mat and hugged her knees taking great breaths to calm her raw nerves. Steve shouldn't love her. He was a soldier, she was a spy. He charged ahead, leading people, while she worked from the shadows, making people disappear. "It's not fair," she whispered to the silence. She shouldn't… love him too.

Natasha didn't know how long she sat there, listening to the silence and focusing on her breathing and remembering what she was taught in the Red Room — always she came back to those nightmarish lessons and hellish mantras — she has no place, she belongs nowhere. She is a weapon, a tool, made of unbreakable marble. She is nothing. She is nobody. She is Black Widow. Locking away her emotions was the only way she knew how to survive. Emotions complicated things. Emotions got a person killed.

Clint — when he rescued her — spent months teasing her open, coaxing her to show her emotions. Encouraging her to drop the mask of Black Widow and embrace Natasha. To this day, it was still a challenge for her. Sighing, she stood up and wiped her sweaty hands on her thighs. She needed to get out of the Tower, needed to go do something. Murder sounded like fun — a dark twitch of her lips and then she heard Steve's admonishing voice: _Murder isn't a pastime, Nat._ Leaving the gym, she went to Carol's floor. It was only eleven o'clock. The door hissed opened and Carol's two cats: Chewie and Goose, perked up when she entered. "Hi kitties," she said, giving them each a pat as she walked into the kitchen and started to make coffee. Chewie and Goose watched her intently, hopeful that she'll feed them. Once the coffee started brewing, Natasha made her way into Carol's sunlit room.

Carol was sprawled out on her bed, hugging her pillow with a bit of drool pooling by her mouth, blonde hair disheveled, and the blankets bunched around her waist, her Air Force t-shirt scunched up on her back. Though Carol had seen many battles and sustained many injuries, her healing ability was similar to Steve's — not a scar in sight, the Kree hybridization she endured on Hala keeping her body in peak physical condition. Natasha sat on the foot of the bed and watched Carol sleep. After about fifteen minutes the coffee machine beeped, singling the coffee was done brewing. A few moments after that Chewie wandered in, thrilled at the sight of Natasha and hopped into her lap, purring. Smiling, Natasha ran her fingers through the brown tabby's soft fluffy fur. Goose joined a bit later, loafing besides Natasha. It was around then that Carol must've senses something was wrong. Groaning, Carol glanced over her shoulder. "How long have you been sitting there?"

Natasha shrugged. "Long enough." She scratched Chewie beneath her chin. "That's a good kitty."

Carol groaned and looked at her clock. "It's eleven-thirty." She squished her pillow together, hiding her face in it. "Too early." Natasha chuckled. "Why are you bothering me? Go bother Rogers. You two are both morning people." Goose got up and walked over to Carol, headbutting her face with a soft meow. Natasha looked away. Steve was probably back from his morning run around Manhattan.

"I made coffee," she said, scooching Chewie off her lap to get up. The cat gave an affront meow. "It's hot. Want me to bring you a cup?" she asked, as she heard Carol sit up. "You like it black right?"

"Did something happen between you and Steve?" Carol asked, brushing Goose's paw away. "Is that why you aren't bothering him?"

"Nothing happened," she said, leaving the room to get Carol her coffee. Carol followed her. Grabbing two cups from the cupboard she poured the coffee. "Here." She handed one over to Carol, before opening Carol's refrigerator and pulling out the hazelnut creamer. "If you're expecting dirty details, I'm sorry to disappoint but you aren't going to get any."

Carol hummed, sipping her coffee. Chewie and Goose leapt onto the counter, Chewie wrapping her fluffy tail around her paws and Goose staring at Carol, tail tip twitching. "Considering you're here, bothering me at this ungodly hour—"

"It's almost _noon_ , Carol!"

"— I assume something happened between you and Captain Lover-boy." Carol smirked behind her cup and took a sip. Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose. "You know when you flare your nostrils, it's your tell."

"And pray tell what does it mean?" Natasha sat beside Carol, petting Chewie. "Very few people can decipher my subtle facial expressions. I mean, just ask Stark. He thinks I'm angry all the time."

Carol arched a brow. "Are you?"

"No" — she sipped her coffee, a tiny smile spreading across her face — "I just like watching him squirm whenever I walk into the room." She chuckled with Carol. "He's afraid you'll shock him if he shakes your hand."

She grinned. "I don't do well with cocky people. Thought I give him a little shock." she said. "I find it funny." Carol nudged Natasha with her foot. "So, what happened between you and Steve?"

"I thought I severed that thread of conversation?"

She smirked. "Nice try, what happened?" There was a gossipy twinkle in her blue eyes. Natasha knew Carol was stubborn as a dog with a bone and that she wasn't going to let this go until she got all the dirty details. She was starting to regret coming to Carol. Clint was not around, having gone home after the Battle of New York and only taking a few select missions here and there. She wasn't close to Bruce, Tony or Thor and she refused to go to Steve after what happened earlier that morning.

"He stayed the night," she said, looking at her light brown coffee, "because I asked him to."

Carol gasped. "Shut up!" she leaned forward. "Was I right? Is he big?" she wagged her brows. Natasha scowled. "What?" Carol leaned back, crossing her ankles. "I'm curious."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "No. It wasn't like that. It was" — sweet, comforting, peaceful, _perfect_ — "nothing. I slept on one side and he slept on the other. We just shared a bed."

Carol tilted her head. "Steve's not Matt," she said.

"I know that." The coffee held no answers, she sipped it, hoping the creamy bitterness will unlock something she was missing. Alas, it did not. So, she sat there and tried to find patterns within the pale brown liquid.

"I mean, hornhead can be a double entendre. Also, I've heard people call him hornboy. C'mon, the man's blind but he still seems to get all the good-looking women."

Natasha huffed. "That's _not_ why people call him that. You never liked him, did you?" she asked. Carol shrugged, setting her cup down.

"I'll be frank with you Natasha," she said, "I always felt lawyers were pompous asshats. Matt's a good guy, but he cut you loose as soon as you went down to DC. I know you loved him, and maybe he loved you too, but the point is he was a shitty boyfriend for just silently dumping you like that." Carol huffed. "I feel sorry for whomever his new girlfriend is. It's only a matter of time before he goes running after the next piece of ass that catches his fancy."

Natasha looked down. "Matt's not like that." Carol arched a brow. "He's not." There was really no reason to defend him at this point. Matt dumped her as soon as she left New York. It had been clear they were heading in opposite directions for a while, she guessed she just didn't want to admit it. Matt stirred something inside her that she didn't realize she wanted — love and comfort, stability and a home. Someone to come home to after a long mission. "Matt's loyal… he really is…"

"Natasha." Carol took her hands. "If Matt had wanted a future with you, he would have gone down to DC with you. Hell, you offered to relocate him and his friend, but he turned that down. I don't know what Matt wanted in the relationship and you never told me what you were hoping for, I know its hard, opening yourself up like that — becoming vulnerable to another person — and then having them betray that trust." She sighed, running her thumbs along the back of Natasha's hands. "What I'm trying to say is don't get hung up on Matt. On what you and he had. Clearly, it wasn't meant to last, so you gotta move forward." A smile quirked her face, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "I mean, you asked Rogers to come and make you pancakes, and the next morning he was here... think about that."

Carol had a point. Steve _did_ come when she asked him to. In all honesty, she wasn't even expecting him to show up, but he did. Never even questioned it, he was there in the morning and making her pancakes, because he what? The idea that he loved her — it felt so foreign to her. That anyone could see something _good_ in her when she had done so much bad. That despite all the awful things she did, she still deserved a chance to be loved unconditionally. Natasha sighed, staring at their joined hands. Carol's hands felt rough with callouses, strong and comforting. They reminded her of Steve's hands. "Have you ever been in love Carol?" she asked.

Carol straightened. "Well…" she blushed. "Once... With Mar-Vell — Dr. Walt Lawson." She pulled her hands away, covering her face. "I was young and he… well" — there was a whimsical look on Carol's face that Natasha never seen before. It was similar to nostalgia. — "we were in space and it was my first time in a real zero-g environment. I remember marveling at how natural it felt. My first space-walk and I felt like I finally found where I belonged — my home. He told me he had a pet alien cat and I laughed it off, teasing him that he found Yoda from a galaxy far, far away." Carol bowed her head. "The crazy thing was he said I wasn't far off and then he" — Carol sighed, looking out her window — "I've never told anyone this. It's always been a little secret of mine. Maria doesn't even know, and I told her almost everything."

"You don't have to tell me Carol, if you don't want to," Natasha said. She understood what it was like to open up when your entire life you've been a private person. Secrets were meant to be hoarded like dragon's gold, not shared with the world. "I understand the need for personal secrets."

"He took his helmet off, in the middle of space. I couldn't believe he could survive. I started to panic, trying to get him to put his helmet back on, but he grabbed my hands and told me that: We're all made of stars, just not the _same_ _stars_." Carol ran her hand through her hair, wetness gleaming in her eyes. "Said it was the truth about star stuff. I knew I was in love with him, but we had to keep it secret. He was my superior and — I had finally found someone _like me_. I always felt different growing up and I could never understand why and Mar-Vell — he just _knew_ and it was so liberaring. He answered a burning question since I was a girl. Why was I different from other girls? Why was I such a tomboy? Why was I always seeking for that next big thrill, the next adrenaline rush, always looking up at the sky and wishing I could fly?" She bit her lip. "He accepted me. All of me and never once did he think I was incapable of doing anything. Mar-Vell _recognized_ that special something in me. I think that's what love feels like at least, Nat. Being accepted fully by another person gives you this feeling of coming home after a long journey, having them recognize what makes you special — even when you can't see it and they encourage you to be more than you think you could ever be. That's what I felt like when I was with Mar-Vell." Carol licked her lips with a soft sniffle. "Mar-Vell was the only man I truly loved."

"And Thor?" Natasha asked. 

"What about him?" Carol's gaze tracked to the side for a second, then focused on her again. "Thor's Thor. I don't know what you want me to say about that." 

"Do you love him?" 

"I" — Carol bit her lip — "I don't feel so out of place with Thor. I feel like maybe... Maybe I can be myself with him." 

Natasha nodded. "I'm sorry Mar-Vell's gone," she said, "he seemed like a really special person." There was truth to Carol's words, about someone recognizing that part of you that you couldn't see yourself. Steve told her that she had the biggest, kindest heart he had ever seen. The cup made a dull sound as she tapped her nails against it.

Carol nodded. "Me too. Mar-Vell protected me from Yon-Rogg. I remember shooting the core, seeing something that I can only describe as a supernova — all of space before me — the power of the stars rushing through my body. I don't remember hitting the ground, Mar-Vell must've caught me. When I opened my eyes after the blast, I remember seeing Mar-Vell in his Kree uniform. It was different from the turquoise, black and silver one I wore — that Yon-Rogg wore. It was red and blue, with a gold Hala star on his chest. I was so out of it I thought he was Superman for a moment." She looked away. "Before I passed out, Mar-Vell told Yon-Rogg not to do this, that it was wrong. Yon-Rogg said Mar-Vell always had a soft spot for wretches and then he killed Mar-Vell and I passed out. Next thing I remember, I was waking up on Hala, being infused with Kree blood to stabilize my powers." 

"Is that why you chose _Captain Marvel_ as you're codename?" Natasha asked. 

Carol chuckled. "Yes and no. I was a captain in the Air Force before everything. Fury called Mar-Vell Marvel. Monica said _Captain Marvel_ sounded cool, better than _Cheeseburger_ anyway" — she shrugged — "Fury liked it, said it reminded him of Captain America. I knew then I had to carry on Mar-Vell's mission though, that's why I decided to leave Earth and help Talos and his Skrull defectors find a home. Tony told me that Fury was calling the Avengers Initiative the Cheeseburger Initiative."

"Yep." She nodded. "Heard a lot of quips that day about it, didn't really lightened the mood. Made me want to hit Tony more than usual for being inanely hyper-verbal." There was maybe two swallows of coffee left in her cup. The need to escape the Tower expanded in her chest and on a whim she said: "Let's go shopping." Carol's eyes widen, her cheeks full of coffee. "Have a girly day. Go shopping, get our hair done, have a mani-pedi. I want to do something relaxing and ordinary."

Carol gagged, pounding her chest. "You want to do — _what_?" she set her coffee down. "Romanoff, you're one of my best friends, but you need to get Pepper to do that with you not me. I'm not that type of girl."

"Oh c'mon, Danvers," Natasha said, "it'll be fun. I'm sure you've done some girly things before." Licking her lips, she continued. "If you do this, I'll—"

"Ask Steve out."

"What?" Natasha's eyes grew wide for half a heartbeat before narrowing. That was not what she was going to bargain with. In fact, she was going to say she'll never ask Carol to do this with her again. "No."

Carol folded her arms over her chest. "Then I'm not going. Go ask Pepper to have a shopping and spa day with you." She slid off her stool and went to the cupboard to grab a can of cat food. Chewie and Goose thrilled, jumping onto the other counter, tails held high. Goose kept trying to use his Flerken tentacles to get the can of food away from Carol, but Carol would grab one and zap it. The shock didn't really deter Goose for very long, just long enough for Carol dish out his food and give it to him so he would leave her alone. "I mean, is it really that bad?"

"No, but —"

"No buts, ask him out or I'm not going," Carol said, finishing feeding Chewie and turning to face her with her hands on her hips. Later, when her emotions had settled, Natasha would recall that Carol didn't look very intimidating standing in her kitchen with messy hair and an old Air Force t-shirt.

"Fine, I'll ask him out—"

"Before Thanksgiving. No pussy-footing around with this one Romanoff. Ask him out for a date this weekend."

Natasha smirked, leaning on the counter. "Alright," she said, "I'll ask Steve out only if you and Thor agree to come. It'll be a double date."

"Oh no!" Carol wagged her finger. "I'm not falling for that. This is not going to be a double date." She leaned forward. "It's going to be just you and Steve so you two can make moon eyes at each other and hopefully get over whatever funk is holding you back from outright debauching each other."

"I think he's a virgin." It was a last-ditch effort in distracting Carol from this inane bargain of hers. "Don't know how much debauching I can accomplish with a newbie."

Carol shrugged. "Steve's a fast learner, I'm sure he'll have you screaming in no time." She held out her hand. "Do we have a deal: I go on this shopping-spa day with you and you ask Steve out?"

What if it doesn't work out? What if he says no? What if Steve Rogers isn't the man she thought he was, and he falls short of her expectations? Does she even have any expectations of Steve as a romantic partner? Frowning, she tried to think of any but came up blank. As a child, one of her first lessons in the Red Room was to always find an exit. Either a physical one or a mental one: always have an egress plan in place incase something went south. Few people could trap her; she forgot Carol always had espionage training on Hala. Staring at Carol's out stretched hand, it felt like something profound was about to happen. That if she took her friend's hand and agreed to the terms, there was no going back.

 _Close it_. The finality in Steve's voice when he gave her that order back during the Battle of New York, knowing full well that Tony may not be able to make it back through the wormhole in time. Still, she touched the Loki's sceptre to the core of the machine, closing off the link and closing the wormhole. She remembered — staring up at the sky, watching as the hole folded back into itself and Tony fall from space — holding her breath. Then a streak of light like a shooting star appeared and caught Tony. Relief flooded through her and she carried the sceptre back down to the street to meet the new arrival and to make sure Tony was okay.

"Alright," she said, clasping Carol's hand. "I agree."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> I want to give credit to the pancake line to Reaper_AOD. 
> 
> This chapter is kinda filler-y, only because I'm not sure how Natasha would react to a situation like this. The next chapter should cover meeting Steve, their first date, and Natasha asking Steve to come to Thanksgiving up at the Bartons with her. God willing though.
> 
> I honestly wanted that in this chapter but I felt that it needed to end with Natasha agreeing to Carol's terms.
> 
> A note about Carol's origins: I'll be frank — Captain Marvel didn't deliver the way Captain America: The First Avenger did or the way Iron Man did, in terms of origin stories. They changed a lot of things that really made Carol who she is in the comics and I don't like that. That being said, in my Head-Universe Carol's origins is a hybridization of her comic origins (Mar-Vell is a man, he defends her from Yon-Rogg and the explosion, Carol is a Human/Kree hybrid [her mother is Kree]) and the movie (Mar-Vell's mission on Earth is to help Talos and his pacifistic Skrulls that have defected from the Skrull Empire [again, this is a headcanon about why Talos is doing what he is and why the Skrulls are portrayed sympathetically in the film], Carol's amnesia and being taken to Hala).
> 
> Please read The Life of Captain Marvel and the first Kelly Sue DeConnick run for Captain Marvel as well as volumes 1-2 of Captain Marvel: Carol Danvers: The Ms. Marvel Years.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	6. Metal Fences

_And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars. And he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with the night. And pay no worship to the garish sun._ _—_ _William Shakespeare,_ _ Romeo and Juliet _

* * *

The run around Manhattan did nothing to clear his head. Just the opposite in fact: he thought about Natasha even more. The sound of her voice, the smell of her hair — mint and cucumber — the way she felt in his arms, fitting perfectly against his board chest as if God had made her with hm in mind. The craving of wanting to hold her thrummed through his veins and it was difficult to ignore it, to go to his suite and clean up, when he wanted nothing more than to go to Natasha. Even beneath the stream of hot water pelting his skin, he thought about her. Wondering what she was doing, who she was planning on seeing today, if they would meet up later and discuss every topic under the sun. Natasha had a sharp mind and a quick wit, a pensive quietness about her, ever observing the world around her and seeing details even his artist trained eyes would miss. It made speaking with her so tantalizing, like unwrapping a Russian nesting doll. New discoveries beneath each layer. A little smile danced across his lips as he toweled himself dry.

And that's when everything came to a grinding halt. Natasha was his friend. His _best_ friend, and he was in _love_ with her. Most people would find that weird — and it was, he'll admit it to some extent — but there was something comforting about being in love with her — shared life experiences. He already knew her, and she already knew most of his quirks, his hopes and dreams and fears, and to hell with it — he didn't care that they were friends, he loved her. She occupied too much of his thoughts since the graveyard meeting back in April. Still, he found himself staring at Sharon's phone number as he sat on the bed, the heat of the shower lingering on his skin.

Natasha had been very clear that morning that she didn't want to push the boundaries of their friendship further, and he wasn't willing to ruin his friendship with her pursuing a misguided romance, especially when he wasn't sure she even wanted it. Besides, he was used to ghost loves. Bucky had tried to set him up with several girls during high school and after, he even tried to ask a few girls out before joining the army. All the girls ignored him, except Peggy. She was the first woman he talked to and she was the first to _see him_. Romance just didn't seem like it was in the cards for him.

Sighing, guilt churning in his gut like a stormy sea, he scrolled past Sharon's contact number — making a mental note to delete it later. The action was subconscious, scrolling down to the Rs and finding _Romanoff, Natasha_ among the contacts. The goofy picture of her in big heart shape sunglasses and holding up a peace sign stared back at him. A tap on the screen, then another tap, and the cursor was blinking in the small text box. The logical part of his brain screamed at him not to do this, do retreat to the safety of Sharon Carter — Natasha was his friend, there was no potential future with her, at least not the one he was hoping for. But his heart was in control now — besides, Bucky always did say he was a punk — and he tapped out the simple message: _Wanna grab a cup of coffee later?_

He tossed his phone onto his pillow and flopped back onto his bed. The ceiling was interesting, in that mind-numbing way when you want to focus on something other than all the shit life had piled up on you. Patterns appeared in the drywall, squiggles and wiggles that twisted and turned like serpentine dragons through the clouds or waves rolling towards a sightless shore. Faces from history both personal and historical manifested between wends and bends, one even looked like Christ. A moment later the faces shifted into grotesques demonic and pagan imagery, the swirls and twirls changing with each breath. A person could get lost in the aisles of the ceiling and their own mind. A muffled buzz snapped him out of his mindless staring. Shifting into a sitting position, he grabbed his phone and thumbed the screen. Natasha had answered with the location and a time. Steve couldn't help the little goofy smile that spread across his lips. Sure, Natasha wasn't going to pirouette through his door and dramatically collapse into his arms like Vivian Leigh and breathlessly beg him to kiss her. A man can still dream though.

Maybe it was that silly little dream that skipped through his head that made him select the blue button-down shirt she had picked out for him the last time they went shopping, and the dark washed jeans that she said showed off his butt perfectly. The leather jacket added the right amount of causal to the look. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his bangs to the side, and before he left, he grabbed the new sketchbook he bought on his way home from his run. Natasha said she'll meet him at the Dancing Crane Café around one, it was ten in the morning now. Plenty of time to do some drawing and people watching until then. Smiling, he left the tower in better spirits than when he came back.

* * *

Even as a boy, Steve loved autumn. The changing of the seasons from the warmth of summer to the oncoming chill of winter. Autumn was a transitory season, but full of color. The red, gold and orange of the leaves contrasting with the dark brown of the tree bark, the grey of the clouds with their foreboding promise of rain or snow. The howl of the wind through the branches and skyscrapers, forcing people to turn their coat collars up and jam their hats onto their heads. The cold felt more bitter seventy years ago, but Steve figured it was just how memory worked. Everything felt _more_ in a memory. Still, it didn't seem like seventy years passed for New Yorkers, insofar as how they lived their daily lives. People still walked briskly through the down the lanes, steaming cups of coffee in hand, the upper middle class and wealthy still lived in the more elite neighborhoods, while the poor and lower middle class lived in the rougher parts of town. People ignored each other too caught up in their private miseries to care about the beggar on the street corner, with grime caked on his face and frostbite nipping at his nose.

The city did get louder in the seventy-year interim. Planes droned overhead, leaving misty white trails in a clear blue sky, cars honked, and sirens blared, music booming from store fronts and car radios. Sometimes, he even heard Tony soaring through the city skies as Iron Man, the sonic boom echoing for miles over the cacophony of people yammering into their phones. There was a peace in the chaos, a tranquility in the city's vibrant pulse. It was this serenity that he allowed himself to get lost in, that let his pen fly over the thick paper of his sketchbook. The black ink making sharp lines that popped against the creamy paper. A mother and her chubby cheeked daughter. A businessman in his thousand-dollar suit, tie whipping in the wind. A woman walking her dog. Teenagers with hair every shade of the rainbow, bright tattoos peaking out from beneath hems and cuffs, piercing glinting in the muted light of the cloud hidden sun. Squirrels sitting on the edge of trashcans, rolling bits of bread between their tiny paws. The sleek black shapes of crows popping out among the branches of the leafless trees, their raspy caws echoing over the park. An old woman sitting on the park bench, covered in raggedy coats and scarves, throwing out bird seed to the cooing pigeons at her feet.

It all came alive in his sketches. Heartbeats frozen in ink and captured in paper, all meticulously detailed. The beauty in the chaos, the harmony in the disorder. Steve lost himself in his work, mind shutting off as he just let the pen glide over the paper and watched as the ink materialized into shapes of people, plants and animals. In fact, he didn't even notice when his sketches began to turn into artistic studies of Natasha. The agile grace of her vaulting over the railing to get to the Lemurian Star's engine room. The subtle arch of her brow when he grabbed her bicep to scold her for not helping Rumlow with the hostages. The disappointment on her face when she said getting attack by Bartoc was on her. The curve of her spine as he watched her sleep in the guest room in Sam's house. The way she pointed her foot just so as she danced to Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the sparkle in her viridian eyes he hoped was reserved only for him.

Steve glanced up to grab his coffee and noticed that Natasha and Carol stood a few yards away from him. The two seemed to be bickering over something, with Carol gesticulating wildly in his direction and Natasha huffing in annoyance, arms folded over her chest and her Barnes and Noble shopping bag at her feet. He cocked his head in their direction, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation as he sipped his coffee. Despite his best efforts, he did hear snippets of their conversation: Carol pointing out that he was there waiting for her. Natasha scoffing and shaking her head. Carol insisting and finally dragging her over to his table. He glanced up, mouth full of hot coffee and stared.

Natasha was beautiful: wearing a dark grey wool sweater that fell to her thighs, a maroon ribbed turtleneck and charcoal skinny jeans. Dark brown booties with fluffy white fleece around the ankles completed the outfit. Her stunning curls caught his eye, however, the coppery vermillion shade of her hair cascaded around her face in ten thousand ringlets, a slouchy beanie of a dark navy that sat on her head helped to tame her fiery curls. He painfully gulped the coffee down. "Hi," he said, voice breathy. Carol was dressed similarly to Natasha, only she chose lighter colors and a thicker wool coat that fell to the top of her calves, her blonde hair frame her face in gentle waves.

"Army," Carol greeted, nudging Natasha.

"Air Force," he said, and grabbed his messenger bag from the space across from him, hastily shoving his sketchbook in it. He stood, moving around the table and pulling the chair out for Natasha. "Nat, sit" — he gestured to the seat — "please."

"Nenavizhu tebya," Natasha hissed, glowering at Carol as she sat down, slapping her Barnes and Noble bag onto the tabletop. "Thanks Steve," she said, a warm smile on her face, which he returned before taking his seat again. Carol smiled blithely as she wrapped her arms around Natasha's shoulders.

"Tozhe tebya lyublyu," Carol said, "have fun you too, and Natasha: Pomni, chto ya skazal." Natasha scowled at that, grabbing Steve's coffee and taking a long swallow. Carol walked away and he was left wondering what the two women were talking about.

"What did she say?" he asked. "My Russian's not that good." He flagged down one of the waitresses and asked for another cup of coffee. She offered him a smile, glanced at Natasha and then nodded, heading back into the café. Natasha surprised him by draining most of his cup.

"You drink your coffee black." She set the cup down. A few birds twittered in the trees, he could see them hopping about, fluffing up their feathers against the cold. A crisp breeze buffed everything for a few seconds before dying down against. Winter was coming and everything felt still and silent, waiting to die.

"Yeah," he said, stretching out a little in his seat, hands falling into his lap. "You look uh… beautiful" — he rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand twitching in his lap — "by the way. Like your hair."

"Oh." A small smile spread across her lips, her fingers ran through her hair, teasing the curls, causing the strains to catch the light in such a way that they blazed like fire. Steve licked his lip. The urge to draw her pricked his fingers: the vermillion and tangerine mingling with the fiery yellow, cascading around her face in a glimmering halo. Those viridian eyes — bright as emeralds — sparkling with cool intellect, flecks of lapis lazuli ringing her ink black pupils. The quirky upturn of her clam shell pink lips cause his heart to flutter, and goosebumps to prickle along his skin. Time stood still and the sun felt warmer than it should have on a blustery day in November; Steve couldn't help but wonder if this was what Anchises felt when he descried Aphrodite that spring morning while herding his sheep on Mt. Ida? "Thanks." The waitress came back and set a cup of coffee in front of him. "Can I get a caramel macchiato?" she asked.

"Sure," the waitress said, winked at Steve and went back. He arched a brow as Natasha watched the young woman disappear into the café, a queer miasma darkening her gaze. He heard Natasha mutter _shlyukha_ — he knew that word — and drained whatever was left in his cup.

"What's in the bag?" he asked. Natasha blinked, tilted her head, and then pulled out a few books. The Cyrillic writing stood out alien and unreal against the abstract covers. "Russian books."

"Russian _literature_ ," Natasha said, her voice soft, her gaze tender as she ran her hand over the cover of each book. "This one is by Mikhail Shishkin" — she held up the one with the abstract grey scale cover — "this one by Zakhar Prilepin" — the cover of that book was somber and black, reminding him of cold Russian winters — "and this one is by Olga Slavnikova." The cover was warmer, yet still had that gloomy Russian cheer. "Not that I don't enjoy American literature, it's just" — she grasped air, trying to think of the word she wanted — " _Russkaya dusha_."

"What does that mean?" he asked. The waitress came back with their drinks. Natasha gave her a brittle smile, leaning forward and putting her hand on his. The waitress didn't glance at him, simply turned and went to the next set of customers. Natasha wrapped her hands around her cup of coffee.

"It mean _Russian soul_. It's like… the American spirit. The essence of our national identity. I'm a naturalized citizen of the United States — I _love_ being an American — but I'm still _Russian_." She looked at the lid of her cup. "The Russian government and military — at least the parts I was associated with — are fucking corrupted as hell, but the Russian people… the soul of my country is still very much in me. The arts, the music, the theatre, and the literature — Russian culture — I still hold on to it."

"I understand that. When I was little, my mam sometimes talked about Ireland" — a melancholic smile spread across his lips — "it felt more like a fairytale really. Ireland. With its solemn grey sea cliffs, rolling emerald hills dotted with fluffy white sheep or iron grey ruined castles that stood sentinel over the land or the mystical daoine sídhe — the fairy mounds — where people say strange things still happen. Mam was Catholic, but she still believed in the aos sí — fairies — and I remember she always had these charms and trinkets around my bed and room when I was little." He shrugged. "I guess she felt she needed both God and the old spirits to help protect me cause, I was always so sick."

"Was it bad?" she asked, sipping her coffee. "Your illnesses?"

Steve sighed. "Dr. Erskine died minutes after I stepped out of the pod, I remember running after his killer and thinking — holy hell, I can _breathe!_ " He laughed. "I didn't really think about the difference until after, when the nurses and remining scientists began to poke me. Growing up, Mam always told me not to exert myself, in case I had an asthma attack. I remember my childhood doctor telling my mam to buy me a pack of cigarettes and letting me smoke one per day. She never did." He sipped his coffee. "If you had asked me before Project Rebirth, I'd say it wasn't bad" — he shrugged — "it was my life. I was the skinny sickly guy that never knew when to quit." He sat there, tracing a nonsense patter on the table, watching the wind tease her curls and prick her cheeks and nose into a rosy pink.

"And now?"

"I guess it was bad, I always got pneumonia at least once a winter, Mam always worried I'd die." He took another sip of his coffee. "What about you? Do you miss it?" he asked. "Russia?" Natasha had never talked much about her abandoned homeland, about what being Russian meant to her or how she still held onto her culture.

Natasha gave a melancholic smile. "Its hard to say. I was isolated for most of my life from my homeland, but I do miss the culture." Her smile brightened. "I should take you to Moscow. Show you around."

"I went to Moscow with Sam, looking for —"

"Exactly." She sipped her drink. "You didn't go as a tourist. I'll show you all the fun places. The little hole in the wall eateries. The things that the tour guides _don't_ tell you about."

"I'd like to see where you grew up."

She barked a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I didn't grow up in Moscow. I grew up in Volgograd" — a sardonic smile graced her lips as she tilted her head — "until the Red Room found me. I doubt the ballet studio where I lived is still there, but maybe we can go one of these days. If you'd like to see it."

He blinked. Natasha had never shared such an intimate detail about her life before. Especially the life she lived before the Red Room. "I remember," he said. "You told me on the way to New Jersey, when we stopped at the diner." He paused. "Do you remember anything before that? If you don't mind me asking?" he held his breath, waiting for her. Natasha grew quiet, a distant look in her eyes, angling her head away to watch the leaves that still clung to the tree, too stubborn to fall. For a moment, Steve felt like she had lived a lifetime like he did, born in one century, yet living in another — a woman out of time.

"I had a grandmother," Natasha said, her voice soft, getting lost in the gusts of wind. "She was a member of the Nochnye Vedmy — the Night Witches, members of the 588th Night Bomber Regiment" — a painful smile spread across her face — "she claimed two extraordinary things. One: I was a lost Russian princess, descendent of the Romanov Dynasty, and two: That Captain America saved her when the German's got lucky and shot her plane down somewhere in the Balkans." Natasha ran her fingers along the seam of her cup. "She encouraged me to dance, to become a famous prima ballerina in Bolshoi Company — for the glory of Russia. She called me moya malen'kaya printsessa, my little princess."

"What happened to her?" he asked, voice soft. He vaguely remembered his grandfather, Ian. His warm laughter and work rough hands, tips marred with callouses and stained with charcoal. The cold winters of sitting on his lap while listening to the radio and his gruff accented voice kindly teaching him how to draw and telling the old folklore of Ireland: stories about Étaín, Eochaid mac Eirc, Cú Chulainn, Clíodhna the Banshee Queen, and the tragedy of Deirdre.

"Died." Natasha shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't remember how. My memories of my time before the Red Room are spotty at best. I just remember that she died and next thing I remember was huddling with a bunch of other grubby street urchins to keep warm during the cold Russian winter nights. After that, it was the ballet studio then the Red Room."

"I'm sorry," he said. She shook her head. "I'd love to see Volgograd — if you're serious about showing me one of these days." A smile spread across his face. "I can show you where I grew up. Today if you want." He pushed his sleeve back to glance at his watch. "We have time. Brooklyn is great. I think Totonno's is still open," he said.

Natasha grinned. "I'd like that, Steve," she said.

"Great, we can take the subway. It's a long walk and nowadays you pay through the nose to catch a cab."

"Did you back then?" she asked. "Pay through the nose?"

He laughed, remembering how he and Bucky had to hitch a ride in the back of an ice truck to get back home from Coney Island. They had jumped off a block before, reneging on their promise to help the drive unload if he allowed them to hitch a ride. "No." He tilted his head from side to side. "It depends. Back then a hundred dollars could buy so much. Today, it doesn't. I hardly ever went to Manhattan. There was still a bitter rivalry between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Not so much now, I guess, but back then — people judged you not only by what neighbourhood you were born in but what side of the river you lived on." He looked at his feet. "Harder for me cause, I was Irish — some of the kids at school would beat me up just because of that, others because I was sickly, most of the time I think it was both" — he shrugged — "WASPs would pick a black man over an Irishman any day." He drained his coffee. "Enough of gloomy reminiscing," he said, putting on a smile. "I was kinda… hoping this'll be something of a uh —" He scratched a spot by his ear.

"Friend-date?" she supplied, arching a brow, a hint of a smile on her lips. "I guess I can do a _friend-date_ Rogers."

"Friend-date? No, no," he said, "I was thinking… we could just hang out. Talk… I like spending time with you Natasha. You… you make me feel less alone." He smiled. "Plus, Central Park is really beautiful in the autumn. We can walk around, and I can point out anything I remember."

Natasha tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "You don't want to—"

"No," he said, guessing at what she was going to say. "You — _we're_ friends." It hurt to smile, to keep the appearance up that he was happy with where their relationship was at. It was different with Peggy. When it was a war dividing them and distance that kept them physically apart. Everyone in the SSR and the Commandos knew that Peggy was _his_ girl. Yet, with Natasha things were different. As open as he has been with her, he still got the feeling that Natasha was guarding her deepest secrets from him. If he was honest with himself, it bothered him that Natasha was so guarded with him. "You're my friend."

"Then why did you tell Matt, you're my boyfriend?" She scratched at a spot on her side of the table, the wind teasing her hair again, a few strains catching on her eye lashes. She blinked, brushing the hair from her face. Steve's heart was in his throat, choking off his ability to breathe, and for a moment he was glad that the wind was cold enough to bite his cheeks into a flushed pink, it hid the embarrassment he could feel rising. The generic pattern on his coffee's sleeve suddenly became more interesting that Natasha.

"You heard that, huh?" he asked, lifting the sleeve up and down. Of course, she heard it. Natasha was the Black Widow — world class spy — she wouldn't have gotten to that position if she slept through her phone ringing or lacked the ability to eavesdrop on phone calls. He regretted lying like that now, though at the time he spoke out of jealousy. How dare this Matt Murdock guy treat Natasha with such casual disrespect as to ghost her while she was away? How dare he lack the respect to give her a call and break up with her properly when he realized that their relationship was going nowhere. How _dare he_ let her find out by allowing her to come into his apartment and see that he's shacked up with his new girlfriend. Steve let go of his coffee cup before he crushed the fragile paper.

Natasha nodded. "Why did you say that?" she asked, running a hand through her gorgeous curls. Steve swallowed hard enough for his Adam's apple to bob. "Matt can tell when people are lying."

Steve snorted in derision. "I doubt that." He finished the rest of his coffee and tossed it into the trashcan. It bounced on the rim than into the bin. A little smirk graced his features. He was no Hawkeye, but he did have a damn good aim. Natasha gave him an approving smile. "And… I don't know," he said. I was jealous, I wanted him to shut up and leave you alone. To let him know that he lost any chance with you, that you moved on. "Guess it kinda slipped out." He hoped the smile he gave her seemed casual enough to convince her not to press the subject.

Where it worked or not, he had no idea. Natasha shrugged, finish the rest of her coffee, stood up and walked over to the trashcan to toss it. "Want to take a walk?" she asked, nodding to the asphalt path that wove its way through Central Park. She shoved her hands into her pockets.

"Sure." He stood up, placed a tip beneath the napkin holder and began to lead at a meandering pace along the trail. Natasha didn't say anything, and he didn't volunteer much either. Instead, they walked in companionable silence. After a few minutes, he glanced down when he felt the tips of Natasha's fingers hook around his. A little smile graced his lips, letting her guide him on how much contact she was willing to display. The mere fact that she wanted a tactile connection warmed his heart; he always imagined her skin to be petal soft — a fair rose beige, his mind wandering to how he would paint it; mixing peach and clam shell pink with some ivory until it was pale with a rosy sheen.

"When I was little, I loved autumn," she said. "Before the Red Room. I would find the best leaves and make a crown. My grandmother said I was the Autumn Princess and when I lived at the ballet studio, I would try to make a ballet for each season."

"I would love to see you dance," he said, guiding her to a more crowded section of the park. Children shrieked, running about in brightly colored coats, their mothers calling after them to stay where she can see them. Squirrels chittered, their bushy tails flicking as they watched the people before sprinting across the dying brown grass. Tourists clustered about narrow choke points in the walk-way to take pictures, native New Yorkers just flowed around them, like a river around a rock. "I could… if you want, we can go to a ballet. I think the New York Ballet does _The Nutcracker_ , should be opening within the next few weeks" — he grinned — "I can ask Tony where's the best place to get tickets or Pepper."

"Oh." The color felt Natasha's cheeks, and she took a quick breath. "No, no," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm… I don't like watching ballet. I get too nitpicking about it. I rather dance it myself."

A frightened gleam had appeared in her eyes and for a moment Steve wondered if it was something he said. It left as soon as he spotted it, so he didn't press on the subject. "That's fine, I don't think I'm the type of guy that could watch an entire ballet either. We could go… to the movies? I'm sure there's a classics theater around here somewhere, we can watch _It's a Wonderful Life_."

"I heard there's a Christmas village," she said, "I would love to go." This time she clasped his hand tightly, leaning against him. "It can be a date."

He choked, stumbling a bit and almost lost the grip on her hand. "Are… Are you asking me out?" The rapid tattoo of his heart felt painful against his ribs, butterflies fluttered around in his stomach, knees feeling weak and mouth desert dry.

A little half smirked tugged at the corner of her mouth, as she looked out at the crowd behind him. The people walking along morphed around them, just another obstacle in their way that they completely disregarded — this is Central Park after all, New Yorkers were used to dumbass tourists stopping in inconvenient places. "Yeah, I mean if—" Natasha stopped, her face going blank and entire body rigid, dropping the grip on his hand. "I have to go," she said, backing away from him.

"What?" he looked around, body on alert for any sign of danger. The people around them didn't look threatening. Teenagers glued to their phones, salary people in their suits and holding leather briefcases as they talked into their Bluetooth earpieces. Tourists from around the world pointing and taking pictures. Families trying to keep their shit together and hold onto their children. Joggers in their underarmor and spandex, some even had their dogs or pushing strollers with their baby asleep within. It was a typical afternoon in Central Park. No threat, no people looking like they were trying to appear as if they belonged without drawing attention to themselves. No shifty gaze when he caught their eye. "Natasha, there's —"

Natasha was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta A. You rock dude! :D
> 
> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> What did Natasha see?
> 
> I always find writing Steve difficult. But I liked how this chapter turned out in the end.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.
> 
> Notes: Carol is fluent in Russian. WASPs stand for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. It was use in the late 19th Century - early 20th Century to differentiate between white Protestant Americans and the white Irish Catholics that were immigrating to the US due to the Great Famine. Ian is Steve's maternal grandfather in the comics. While the MCU makes no mention of him, I don't see why he wouldn't be present in Steve's life.


	7. Secrets — Dark and Deep

Natasha couldn't believe how stupid he was being. To brazenly walk out in broad daylight — in New York City — while she was with Steve? Did he want everyone and their government converging on him? Muttering curses in Russian beneath her breath, she slipped into the crowd, away from Steve, vanishing like a light in the deepest shadows. It hurt a little to ditch Steve like that, but how could she explain to him why she was leaving: hey, sorry I have to split but I just saw your best friend — yeah he doesn't want to talk with you right now, but I found him before I went to Russia to establish a new cover. We've been keeping in contact, kept sending him burner phones until he decided to keep one.

Yeah, that would go over well with Steve. The secret did — however — burned in her chest. Ever since Steve told her he never found Bucky; she had been worried something would slip and the hidden house of cards would come crashing down around her. Apparently, today was when it did, because the man she was trying to protect — from Steve, society, various world governments… _herself_ — had decided it was a swell day to slip into a crowd and find her. "Tupoy ublyudok. Glupyy ublyodok."

It felt familiar, weaving through the sea of humanity, catching a glimpse of him here and there as he led her to a pre-determined destination. It was like the times when they would meet up — when he was out of Hydra's hold for long enough that the man beneath the blood and metal and death could resurface. The familiar tingle shivered down her spine, the contrast of his two hands — one flesh and warm; the other metal and cold — seared with memories along her skin, the husky rasp of his voice as he kissed her lips and sucked on her throat. _Lisichka. Lisichka. Moy lisichka. Moy prekrasnyy lisichka._ Natasha bit her lip at the ghost of the memory. It was in the past now, best left buried and dead. Her romance with James was over.

A hand closed over her bicep. Ingrain reflexes took over: she turned, aiming a knife had her attack's throat, her knee going for the tender belly. Instead, her attacker grabbed her wrist, and wedged his leg between hers to prevent her from kneeing him in the gut. "Nat — what the hell? I've been chasing after you for five minutes!" Steve said, letting her go once she relaxed in his grip. Sloppy. Very sloppy. How could she be so caught up in her own head that she allowed Steve to tail her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, Bucky was nowhere to be seen. It didn't mean he wasn't nearby, waiting for her to shake Steve and continue her maze like trailing to the destination he had in mind. "What's going on? Why did you just _leave_?" There was a quaver in his voice, hurt in his forget-me-not blue eyes. It took some effort for her to breathe and swallow the lump in her throat.

"I just remembered I was meeting Pepper to discuss something that's left over from when I was undercover at Stark Industries. Something with hours and numbers and how much did I actually make." She gave him a weak smile. "I'm sorry, I totally spaced on it." Steve didn't say anything, just gave a single nod. Either he wasn't buying the story and was just letting herself tie her own noose or he believed her; it made Natasha's gut churn with acidic disgust. Lying to people have never been a problem. Even to people she loved — Matt couldn't tell when she lied, and he was basically a human lie detector; he had once told her that the only time he ever heard her heart rate change was when they had sex. Yet, for some reason she hated lying to Steve. It made her feel dirty, like a sheen of black oil covered her skin. "I'll meet up with you this evening," she said and took his hand, running her thumb along his knuckles. "Why don't we order some Thai food and we can continue watching the Disney movies you missed. I think we stopped at _Mulan_."

Steve blinked. "Alright. I just… wished you told me," he said, "is all." The little admission hurt, the words stinging her heart like a swarm of wasps. Natasha forced the lump in her throat down. Huffing, she flicked her ankles, rising gracefully into _en pointe_ and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'll see you this evening," she said and trailed her hand on his opposite cheek for good measure. "I have to go." And with that she slipped back into the crowd, fluid as a dolphin cutting through the waves. She paused only for a moment to glance over her shoulder to make sure Steve wasn't following her. Natasha tried to slip back into the mind of the Black Widow — love was for children, she had no place in the world, attachments just got you killed and compromised the mission, she was made of unbreakable marble — yet she found herself glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure Steve wasn't following her as she picked up Bucky's trail again. Anxiety pricked her skin and she could feel her heart thump in her chest, vaguely she wondered what her heart would have told Matt in that moment.

* * *

Bucky had led her to a dingy looking motel. The paint was faded and grungy. Dirt stuck to the sides due to the slimy film that seemed to cover everything. The glass window at the front desk was grimy with old dust and various stains she didn't want to think about it. The inside hadn't faired any better than the outside. The wallpaper curled back in places, revealing worn walls and termite chewed wood, a mouse or a rat squeaked somewhere within the bowels of the building and a few cockroaches scuttled away from her feet along the barf green carpet. The stairs creaked as the ascended to the third floor and the scents of drugs, sex and booze permeated the hallways. Moans and groans could be heard through the paper-thin walls and doors — from prostitution or drug use, it was impossible to tell. The key in her hand said C36, the room was at the end of the hall, old newspaper yellow with age and torn from use covered the dirty window at the end of the hall. Natasha could hear the alley cats yowling in the dumpster below. Without a second thought, she opened the door to C36.

Bucky stood in one shadowy corner; blue eyes bright in the shadows. His face looked hollowed and worn, skeletal even. There was at least two days growth of beard on his chin and cheeks. The weather boded well in his favor, a thick workman's jacket covered his left arm and he wore gloves to hide his hand. He reminded her of a scared abused animal that had escaped and wasn't sure if he could trust anyone not to beat him. "What the hell, James?" she hissed as she closed the door and threaded the flimsy chain through the lock. "Are you trying to blow your cover? What if Steve saw you?"

"He didn't," Bucky said, rubbing his metal arm and looking out the disgusting window. He took a step back, placing his body more towards the wall. Habit from living as an assassin. Anyone could have a sniper on you, and you lived in a constant state of fear of seeing sunlight glance off the glass of a scope or the glint of a muzzle, knowing by the time you reacted it was already too late. "I made sure." A lopsided smile graced his features for a moment. "You and Steve — he looked happy, real happy." Bucky gave her an approving nod. "I'm happy for you two."

A headache was building at the base of her skull and working its way up into her forehead. Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "We had a deal, James. I keep you hidden while you work on getting somewhere safe." She glared at him. "I can't do that if you decide to _ditch_ the safehouse and go wandering New York! What if someone saw you that wasn't me or Steve?"

"I'm fine." He fixed her with an icy stare. "I know what I'm doing Natalia." Her birth name tumbling from his lips sent unwanted shivers down her spine. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like if Steve would say her birth name as he kissed a trail down from her throat to her breasts. The thoughts took a turn she didn't need them to go; she shook her head, refocusing on the task at hand.

"You trusted me to help. So, let me help," she said. His nostrils flared and he gave a curt nod. "Why are you here? Did someone find you? Are you compromised?" A noise echoed down the hall; it took her a moment to realize it was someone arguing. It sounded like two men: a young one and a slighter older one. The walls muffled their voices enough that she couldn't tell what they were arguing about, but it sounded more than just a simple lover's spat. Bucky shook his head.

"I want out of the country."

Natasha cocked a brow. Risking exposure to ask her to get him out of the country seemed a little extreme to her. Especially, considering he had all manner of connections within all sorts of alphabet agencies and even those that didn't have names — both private and federal. "So?" she asked. "Why don't you leave? I hear Greece is pleasant this time of year or maybe southern Spain."

Bucky ran his right hand through his greasy hair, and she could smell the body order wafting from him. It made her wonder when the last time he showered or was staring at the cybernetic Frankenstein mess that was his left shoulder too much for him that he refused to shower — even in the dark, he could still feel the scars where metal joined flesh. "Can't."

"Can't? What do you mean you can't?" she asked. He was the Winter Soldier, a ghost story to the entire intelligence community. Few believed he existed, fewer still lived to tell of their encounter with his phantasmal existence. A stalker in the snow, a man of terror and fear — the devil made flesh — a silent hunter that never missed his mark. It didn't seem like he was incapable of fixing a new passport and hoping a plane to the Balkans if he didn't want to.

"I mean," he said, tucking his hands into his armpits. "That I can't. After you released the Shield files to the public, active agents froze all my assets. They hoped it would lure me back or at least force me into a trap. That's the reason why I accepted your help in the first place."

"Yeah," she said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from her tone, "after I sent you half a dozen burner phones."

Bucky's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "If I try to leave the country, I'm going to have NSA, FBI, CIA, Homeland and every other alphabet agency both foreign and domestic on my ass. Not to mention the unnamed ones and the private contractors." He shrugged. "I need to leave the country covertly."

"You're still going to need papers for customs in whatever country you end up in," she said. "Even if you parachute into a farmer's field." He gave a nod.

"I know." He tilted his head. "That's why I figured you could help."

Natasha bit her lip. This would be so much easier if Steve knew, she thought. Steve could use his pull as Captain America to at least get the US government to back off, to give them some breathing room to set Bucky up somewhere safe so the people that would seek to use him won't be able to find him. She didn't want to think about what North Korea, China, any of the various African warlords or South American drug lords would do if they got their hands on the Winter Soldier. "Alright," she said, "I'll see what I can do. A few people owe me some favors. But, don't expect anything until after the New Year at the earliest. I need to get the paperwork in order — you know how agencies like to drag their feet."

"Yeah."

"Transportation won't be a problem though," she said. "What about Steve?" she asked. If she was going to do this, she'll have to know whether or not to involve Steve. A part of her figured she should just tell him, let him help Bucky find some measure of peace in this fucked up world — it was a slow agonizing process, putting yourself back together after a lifetime of deconstruction. The feeling of being unmade never left you, it settled in your bones and vibrated just below your subconscious for eternity. The mere thought caused her to rub her arms and look away — a horrified Laura, the bathroom smelling of shit and cleaning solution, her own skin beneath her nails and blood seeping down her arms onto the dirty grey tile and her cocktail dress, tears dampening her cheeks — no, it was better to keep Steve in the dark. He wouldn't understand what it's like, what Bucky was going through, what she had been through. Steve belonged to the world of light, she and Bucky dwelled in shadow. "Is the shower broken at the safehouse?" she asked. Bucky shook his head. "You should try using it sometime."

"I can't." Bucky peeked out the window, a frown creasing his lips at whatever he saw down in the alley. Natasha huffed.

"Why?" she asked. "You just said the plumbing is fine at the safehouse. Why don't you take a shower?"

"I can't," he repeated, letting the ratty curtain fall from his fingertips like dusty gossamer fabric; he took a step away from the window and sat down on the creaky old chair, it groaned in protest beneath his weight.

"James, you need to bathe," she said, "you stink."

A humorless bark of a laugh escaped him. "Don't I know it. I can smell myself, Natalia." The sigh that escaped was filled with a maelstrom of negative emotions: disgust and shame chief among them. "I can't. I just can't… I" — he ran his hand through his greasy hair — "every time, I take my shirt off — it's there. This horrible mess of — I'm a monster" — he hung his head — "more mechanical beast than flesh and blood man."

It broke her heart to hear him talk about himself like that. Long ago, back when they were lovers, she would trace that mangled mess of his shoulder where metal met flesh, enjoying the contrast between skin and steel. He had whispered to her during one cold Russian winter night that whenever she touched the scars, he felt better about them, more human. "James…" she wanted to make it better somehow, but she was a killer like him. Tenderness and comfort wasn't in her nature, she wasn't a soft woman. Still, she made an effort. Kneeling next to him she put her hand on his left arm. "I'm sorry." She ran her thumb up and down, giving him a small smile.

Bucky shook his head, pulling away from her touch. "I can't look at it," he said, tears clawing at his throat. "Just like I can't even face, Steve. Not after what I did to him on the helicarrier."

Natasha swallowed: Steve half dead on the ground by the riverbank, bleeding from three gunshot wounds, her lips pressing against his ice cold lips as she forced breath into his lungs, begging him to breathe as she pounded his chest in an effort to get his heart to start. Steve in the hospital, soft groans of pain escaping him — pain medication was ineffective, the serum metabolized it out of his system too rapidly for it to take effect. The heaviness of his hand in hers as she stood vigil at his bedside, praying to God (something she rarely did) that he would pull through and open his eyes. Bucky stood up and peeked out the window again, she saw his shoulders tense. "James?"

"Looks like you have a tail, Natalia," he said, letting the curtain flutter close again. "Didn't expect you to get this sloppy."

"Der'mo." She got up and joined him at the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to get a line of sight into the alley. Steve was there, talking to two officers. "I thought I ditched him."

"Well, Steve always has been a stubborn punk." There was fond amusement in Bucky's tone. Natasha smiled, remembering the same tone in Steve's voice whenever he spoke of that bygone time before the ice, before the war — when it was just him and Bucky against the world. "He's distracted," Bucky said. "The fire escape is outside the window in the hall."

"Code violation?" she asked, as she headed to the door and undid the lock. "Go back to the safehouse, James. Take a shower _please_ — shower in the dark if you have to."

Bucky made an unhappy sound. "Just because it's dark doesn't mean my sense of touch stopped working."

"I know," she said, "but you'll feel better if you washed the grime off you." She opened the door and exited the room. The window proved to be tricky, stuck closed with a bunch of caked on dirt and grease and God only knew what else. With a grunt, she managed to pull it open, huffing as she pushed it up high enough for her to wiggle her body through the opening and land on the iron wrought fire escape. The noxious scent of rotting garbage drifted up from the alley below. Mingling delightfully with the scents of vomit, piss and oil slick mud. Overhead the drone of planes crisscrossed the sky and she could hear the cars honking just beyond the buildings. To her left, she could hear Steve talking with the officers, though was unable to make out what they were saying. Going towards the street meant facing Steve and she didn't want to deal with that. There was only one solution: up.

* * *

It still surprised her that Matt worked out of a run-down corner office in Hell's Kitchen. Star Industries paid both him and Foggy handsomely to keep them both on retainer in case a legal emergency reared its ugly head; at least Foggy had a nice view of the Hudson. The office smelled of spice food, sweet treats and second-rate grocery store coffee. Natasha made a mental note to tell Pepper to have some of that fancy French roast coffee delivered to Matt's office.

Karen was mysteriously absent from her desk and Foggy was trying to coax the ancient copy machine into being inclined to work. "Oh, come on!" he cried when the machine began to smoke. Natasha chuckled, walking up to him. "Don't do this to me, please." He begged as he began to open the various compartments in an effort to find the paper jam. "I need this copied. I don't want to spend money at Kinkos."

"Why don't you use some of the money that Stark Industries pays you guys for being on retainer?" Natasha asked, setting one butt cheek of Karen's desk. Foggy tuned, startled for a moment before breaking into a grin.

"Natasha!" he hugged her, she laughed. The one sad thing about no longer being Matt's girlfriend was not being able to see Foggy as often as she liked. The man had a heart of gold, kindness oozed out of his pours and he cared about his friends. She could still go and get a discount at Nelson's Meats if she wished. "What are you doing here?" he asked, the copy machine groaned, beeping back into life and spitting out several copies. "Oh, now you decide to work."

"Where's Karen?" Usually Karen coaxed the office machines into behaving. She remembered when Matt tried to get the fax machine to work. If she remembered correctly, Matt even had trouble working his braille embosser. "Doesn't she usually do this?" She looked around, trying to find Matt. The window into his office had curtains drawn, which she found strange. Matt didn't need curtains. "When did he get curtains?"

"I honestly don't know." Foggy collected his papers, pleased that he only had to discard a few copies because they had been rendered illegible to do ink splatters. "I think Matt sent Karen to do something, he should be in his office though." Foggy gave her a one arm hug before going into his office. The door clicked closed. Natasha pushed the papers around on Karen's desk, half-looking for anything interesting but found nothing. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Natasha went to Matt's office. Upon closer inspection the curtain turned out to be two coats haphazardly hung up to prevent prying eyes from witnessing whatever was inside. Giggles could be heard from the other side of the door and Natasha arched a brow. Matt usually was dedicated to his work; it was unlike him to slack off during the middle of the day. Not that he wasn't been known to, it was just odd for him to do so.

Natasha twisted the doorknob slowly, opening the door without making a sound. The soft erotic moans punctuated the breathy feminine giggles. "Keep it down, don't want Foggy to hear." Matt's voice was gruff, husky with lust. Karen's back was to her, and Matt's swivel chair — which was second hand and had seen much better days — squeaked; his desk rattled every time the top of Karen's butt bumped it. Natasha could rarely sneak up on him, but he seemed so caught up in his little office escapade that he didn't notice her. Natasha closed the door soundlessly and stood there with her arms folded over her breasts, watching Matt and Karen have their secret office tryst.

After a few minutes — and when they both looked like they were nearing their peak — Natasha loudly cleared her throat. Karen turned and the healthy flush of her cheeks drained. "Shit!" she hissed, pushing away from Matt as best she could — which wasn't much considering she was straddling his lap, her legs slipped between the arms of his chair and her back was up against his desk with her skirt cover his bare legs. Matt's trousers pooled at his feet.

"Natasha?" Matt's blind eyes widen, even though he didn't really face her and appeared to be looking more over her left shoulder. He fumbled for his glasses, which he placed on top of his head, while Karen fumbled to remove herself from her lap. Matt groaned, one hand tightening on his girlfriend's hip. Natasha made no move to help the two disentangle, though her lips did curl up into an amuse smirk watching them put themselves back together. Once Karen managed to get herself off Matt's lap, she found her discarded panties and shimmied them up her legs and smoothed her skirt while Matt pulled up his pants and made himself presentable. Karen glanced at him and blushed, grabbed their coats from the window and left the office. The door rattled in the frame. Natasha chuckled, walking over to Matt's desk and sitting on the edge.

"Acting like horny teenagers now?" she asked, watching as Matt adjusted his glasses and ran his hand through his red hair. "Whose idea was it to have sex in the office." The color bloomed on Matt's cheeks. "Why Matthew," she purred, leaning closer and putting her finger under his chin. "You have an office kink." She smirked, chuckling. "If only I had known."

Matt pulled away from her. "Why are you here, Natasha?" he asked, patting around his desk for something. "I doubt it was to interrupt my… meeting with Karen."

"Oh, meeting," she said, picking up a pen and twirling it in her fingers. "That's what you're calling it now?" she smirked, when he grumped, folding his arms over his chest. "I need your help."

"Oh?" he arched a brow. "With what?"

"Why else do I need a lawyer's help?" she shrugged. "I need you to get a visa and a passport ready for me — it's for a friend."

"You know that's not my forte, Natasha. I do criminal law."

"Please, you owe me a favor," she said. "And if you do this, I might not tell Foggy what you and Karen were doing."

Matt's Adam's apple bobbed, but the color didn't return to his cheeks. "Fine." He leaned forward. "But I'm only doing this if you help me in return."

"I'm already not going to tell Foggy about this, Matt. What more do you want?" She arched a brow.

Matt huffed, adjusting his tie. "There's a person of interest. I think the individual is in the Kingpin's pocket, but I can't _prove_ it — through legal channels anyway."

"So, break into his house, get what you need and go." She shrugged. Matt had done such work before. She didn't see why it was a problem this time. "Unless you can't?"

"It's not that simple," he said. Natasha rolled her eyes. "I can't get the documents as… Daredevil, because then Fisk's lawyers will know I obtain them illegally."

"Why not send Karen in? She's a good investigator."

"Karen's not the Black Widow. They'll know if someone like Karen swipes them. If you did it on the other hand…" Matt shrugged.

Natasha sighed. Matt was right. Nobody would know how the evidence he wanted ended up missing if she took it. It was part of her training: leave no trace. "I supposed I can pose as an anonymous tipster." She looked at her nails and gave a nonchalant shrug. "I do this and—"

"I'll push the passport and visa paperwork through as fast as I can. Won't be until after Christmas that you'll get anything."

"That's fine," she said, "my friend already knows the holidays are going to delay things. When can I get what you need?" she asked.

"Next week. The indidivual is holding a gala — fundraising for something. I already have a plan" — Matt smirked — "got Jack Batlin invited. So, you and I'll go to this and—"

"No." She shook her head, watching Matt frown. She wasn't going to pose as Matt's girlfriend. That was inviting disaster, and it was another headache she didn't need.

"Why not?"

"You want your evidence?" she asked. Matt nodded. "Then I'll be taking Steve with me" — a pause — "they don't know what you look like do they?"

"No."

"Good." She stood up. "Well then, it looks like I'll be getting your evidence for you" — she smirked — "after all, you could use my help with all this."

"And you won't tell Foggy?" Matt arched a brow. Natasha smirked, enjoying how Matt squirmed in his seat. Matt couldn't tell anything from her heartbeat, it was too steady — for she had been trained to mastery in the art of deception. "Natasha," he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.

"Tsk, tsk, Matthew," she said heading towards the door, "maybe if you're that worried about him finding out you shouldn't be practicing unprofessional behavior with your secretary—"

"Office manager," Matt said, as he shifted and cleared his throat; he rubbed his nose. "Karen's our office manager."

"Well" — she gave him a devilish grin — "you should definitely think twice about behaving in an unprofessional manner with your _office manager_." She sashayed out into the main lobby of the office and smiled at Karen. "Karen," she said, pleased to note how the other woman's cheeks turned a bright cherry red. With that, Natasha left the law offices of Nelson and Murdock.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent trying to get ahold of Steve. The man was stubbornly refusing to answer his cell and JARVIS had yet to inform her if Steve returned. There was no answer when she knocked on the door of his suite for the tenth time. Sighing, she returned to her own suite, checked the status of her delivery before taking a quick shower and changing into something comfortable: fuzzy socks and yoga pants and one of Steve's t-shirts she swiped when he spent the night at her place in DC. Natasha pulled her hair into a messy bun and answered the door when JARVIS announced that the delivery boy had arrived. The delivery boy was a pimple-faced teenager with curly hair and a slack-jaw expression that he was actually delivering a hundred dollars worth of Thai food to an Avenger. Natasha accepted the bags with a smile and pressed a crisp fifty dollar bill into his hand. "Not a word," she said with a wink. Mutely, the kid nodded and pocketed the money before leaving. Natasha tried Steve's cell again. "Hey Steve, sorry about this afternoon. Pepper made it sound like it was akin to life or death, so I had to leave. Sorry, it was so sudden. To make it up I ordered a bunch of food from that Thai place you like. Why don't you come over and help me make a dent in it?" she asked, hoping he knew how to check his voicemail. "JARVIS?" she asked.

"I'll deliver the message to Captain Rogers as soon as he returns, Agent Romanoff," the AI said in that cool British accent. Natasha wondered how Tony programmed that. "Also, Agent Barton is in the building. Shall I tell him you request his presence?"

"Sure." Natasha went to her kitchen, setting the bags down and pulling out the various containers. She put Steve's favorites in the fridge, so Clint didn't gobble them up. The rest she left out, grabbed a plate and sampled a little bit of everything. A bottle of vodka with a shot glass on top in one hand and her dinner in the other, she went to the couch and turned on a random true crime documentary. The door hissed opened a few minutes later, Clint came in. She noticed he had bandages on his fingers, a taped cut across his nose and another on his brow. A few blobs of caked blood from cuts on his arms. "What happened to you?"

"Eh." He shrugged. "Shit happens." Clint watched the documentary for a moment before saying, "Food's in the kitchen?"

"Don't touch the stuff in the fridge, that's for Rogers." Natasha set her plate down and poured herself a shot of vodka. It burned its way down into her stomach. Frowning at the shot glass, she twisted it about in her hand before setting it on the table and took a long swallow from the bottle itself. It was vodka, and Russians drank it like water. Her grandmother told her that after WWII ended Moscow ran out of vodka due to the seemingly endless celebrations and how liberally the vodka flowed. Clint joined her on the couch, a beer in hand. "Is Laura mad at you?"

"No." Clint speared his food with his fork. "Thai?"

"Steve likes it."

"And you still aren't _dating_ him?" Clint made air quotes around the word dating. Natasha scowled. "Just asking." He shrugged. "Nice shirt," he said, "didn't know you were a Dodgers fan."

Natasha looked down at the faded shirt she wore. "Its soft." She took another swig of vodka. Clint didn't say anything. "Steve and I are friends."

"Right," he said. Clint pushed around his food before taking a bite. "So the term friends must've gotten updated since last I heard it" — Natasha narrowed her eyes at him and took a bit of food — "You order food he likes, wear his shirt and snap at me to not touch his food" — Clint licked his lips and pointed his fork at her — "and I'm just gonna pull this outta my ass, but you do all that because you and Steve are _just friends_?" He made air quotes around the words just friends.

"You know I really like Laura; I'd hate to see her sad," Natasha said, slurping up a peanut sauce covered noodle. Clint chuckled.

"Guess Laura and I are friends, cause I know what she orders when we go to Red Robins." Natasha fixed him with another glare. "Just saying."

"Any plans next week?" she asked, wanting to avoid talking about her and Steve's relationship — which was totally platonic, and no she wasn't lying to herself. If Steve didn't want to do her little favor for Matt, she'll need a fall back plan. Clint was handing in a pinch and had similar training to her. Plus, during his youth he was a skilled thief for the Circus of Crime.

"No."

"Good, if Steve says no, will you help me with something?" she asked, scooping up some of the rice on her plate. "It's a freelance gig. Need a partner."

"Sure." Clint was also good about not pressing for more information than what she gave. "Barney's coming this year," he added. "Laura wants to know if you'll bring Matt or just come by yourself. Needs to have a headcount so she can by a turkey."

"Matt's not coming." Natasha pushed her food around her plate. Ever since Clint saved her from the Red Room, she'd been going to his place for Thanksgiving. It was a sign of trust — knowing and keeping Clint's precious secret. Clint had vetted Matt before he even agreed to let her bring him to Thanksgiving (though despite all that research Clint _still_ didn't know Matt was blind). Natasha was sure Steve could keep a secret but whether Clint trusted Steve with the knowledge of his family was another thing. "Mind if I bring Steve?"

Clint gave her a sad smile. "Sorry about Matt," he said. "I knew you liked him." Natasha shrugged.

"It is what it is," she said, trying to keep the hurt from her voice. "I just wished he had the balls to dump me to my face instead of shacking up with his secretary while I was in DC and not bothering to tell me until I walked through his door yesterday."

"Ouch." Clint winced. "That's a shitty way to find out."

Natasha shrugged, taking a few bites. Karen wasn't a bad person. If she was honest with herself, Matt deserved someone better than her. She had too much baggage and what she knew about Matt — his mother dying in childbirth and his father getting murdered shortly after he was blinded — it was better that they weren't in a relationship. Two people with closets full of skeletons wasn't a great combination. "I'm over it."

For his part, Clint didn't say anything further about Matt or asked her if she was okay about how things ended between them. He knew her well enough to not push her on such subjects. "Anyway, I trust Steve, but you're sure he can keep a secret?" Clint popped a sauce covered peanut into his mouth. Natasha nodded. "Sure. I'll tell Laura you're bringing your new boyfriend."

"Steve isn't my boyfriend you ass," Natasha said as Clint gave her a smirk and took a sip of his beer. "He's not."

"Uh-huh," Clint said. "Nothing gets pass me, Romanoff. You should know that by now." Natasha arched a brow. "What? Why do you think my codename is _Hawkeye_?"

"Did you ever notice anything about Matt?" she asked. If Clint was so sharp on picking up details, he would have surely known Matt was blind. Clint frowned though, his brows knitting together. She waited, giving him an imploring look.

"Is this a trick question?" he asked, taking a swig from his beer. "Cause all I noticed is he's a sanctimonious prick."

Natasha tucked the corners of her mouth in to keep the smile from blooming on her face. "Wow," she said, grabbing the bottle of vodka and taking a long swallow. "I think I need to contact Hill and tell her to change your code name to _cockeye_."

"Hey, that's not fair, what am I supposed to notice about Matt?" She didn't say anything, and Clint huffed. "But yeah, Steve's one hundred percent your boyfriend" — she scowled — "personally," Clint said, "I think you're the reason why he's single and turned down all those girls you tried to set him up with when he was at Shield."

 _She's not you_. This needed vodka. Natasha chugged the vodka down until the need to breath was too pressing. She gasped, licking her lips and tasting peanut sauce and vodka. An interesting combination that she found a little delightful. "Steve's just shy." Maybe him saying he was too busy was his way of saying he wanted to spend time with her. The two years they worked together at Shield was a constant hustle and bustle of missions. Holing up in a safehouse in Columbia. A stake out in Syria. Another safehouse in the middle of the Siberian wilderness. So many missions just involving her and Steve. Sleeping in concrete bunkers or cuddled together on the rickety bed with a threadbare blanket to keep them warm.

"Now who's not noticing things," Clint said, putting his hand on her knee. "Don't kill me for saying this Nat — I'm speaking as your brother — but I want you to be happy. I think it's time you let yourself be happy."

The tenderness stung a little, her smile was forlorn. "Happiness doesn't come to someone like me, Clint."

"Nat —"

"Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers is at the door," JARVIS said. Natasha gave Clint another smile, setting her food down and heading to the door. She touched her thumb to the reader and the door hissed open. Steve stood at the threshold, in jeans and a t-shirt. There was a tired worn out look on his face, sad maybe.

"Hi." She offered him a smile. "Come in, I brought Thai." She jerked her head towards the interior of her suite and stepped aside to let him in. "It's in the fridge."

An unreadable expression twisted his lips. "Sorry," he said. "I already had something to eat before coming back here. JARVIS said you wanted to talk to me."

"Come in, Steve," she said. "You can take your food with you. Don't have to eat here." Steve's shoulders tensed, but he accepted the invitation. The door hissed closed and Clint looked up from his spot on her couch.

"Hey Cap," Clint said, setting his food down and hopping to his feet. He stretched. "Well, better get back to my place."

"You have a place?" Steve arched his brow. "I thought you just hung out here for the free food."

Clint chuckled. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Cap," Clint said, putting his hand on her shoulder: "Is it just me or did it drop a few degrees in here?" he asked, dropping his voice to a low whisper. She didn't say anything; Clint patted her shoulder. "Night lovebirds." He waved at them before leaving. Natasha shot a glare at his back and he flipped her off.

"What's he talking about? And lovebirds?" Steve folded his arms, angling his head down. "And why did you want me here?"

There was a curt tone in his voice, like the one he used when he caught her backing up Shield files on the Lemurian Star. A maelstrom of emotions churned in her gut and for a heartbeat the truth was on her tongue. It would solve so many problems if she just came clean with him. Tell him about Bucky; but Bucky had asked her not to tell Steve about him, and she understood the shame of trying to reassemble yourself. So, she swallowed the truth and fed him the lie. "I wanted to apologize to you," she said, returning to her seat on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. It was a vulnerable position to take, a one of submission and allowing him to accept her apology at his own pace. "Truth is" — she picked up the bottle of vodka and ran her finger along the lip — "got word of a freelance gig. Had to act fast before someone else snatched it up. That's why I ditched you this afternoon" — she hung her head; hating herself from feeding him a half-truth. Lying and deception never bothered her before. It was like breathing to her, yet for some reason with Steve it tasted like a bitter poison on her tongue — "And why I told you it was Pepper needing to see me. I'm sorry."

Steve sighed, pushing away from the table, hands in the pockets of his jacket. There was something unreadable about his expression. How he stood there, watching the traffic lights below, the light gleaming off the glass of the window. Another sigh escaped him and he walked over to the couch and leaned on the back, watching the documentary for a little before looking at her. Natasha held still, though her insides squirmed beneath his steady blue gaze. They said that the eyes were the windows into the soul and beneath Steve's gaze it felt like he saw right through her. A sad smile tugged at his lip. "Wish you had told me instead of ditching me like you did."

"I'm sorry," she said, her guilt genuine. "Really, I am."

His gaze shifted to the side as if he was weighing the options in his head. He sighed, pulling out his wallet and handing her a crumpled fifty dollar bill and set it on the counter. "For the food."

"Steve." The years of training kept the emotions from her face but didn't keep the feelings from swirling around in her head. The cool detachment in which he said _for the food_ , the way he refused to meet her gaze when he said it. During the entire Project: Insight fiasco she had learned that trust was an important aspect of a relationship — romantic or platonic — for him, and here she was hiding his best friend for him — something she had been doing for the past six months, letting him and Sam run across Europe on a wild goose chase looking for Bucky when he had been tucked safely away in upstate New York. The idea made her feel sick — something that enraged the Black Widow and caused it to whisper to her how she needs to squash these feelings for they are nothing but a weakness. "I need your help with it actually." He arched a brow, the guarded expression never leaving his baby blue eyes. "My contact suspects a dirty senator, but needs evidence to nail this guy's ass. That's where I — and hopefully you — come in. We go to a high tone and fancy to-do fundraising gala some important snob is hosting next week; find the evidence and I drop it off to my contact."

"I see," he said, pushing away from the couch and walking to the fridge. He opened the door and pulled out one of the containers of Thai food and then grabbed a fork. The wonders of having a super soldier metabolism; she watched Steve eat for a little bit.

"It's a black-tie event," she said, "ask Tony if he knows a tailor for a tux. If you don't want to do it that's fine. You can think about it. I'll give you a few days."

Steve nodded. "I'll think about it," he said. The silence pressed in around them, the narrator on the documentary she had playing started explaining how this serial killer chose his victims and the grizzly way he murdered them. "Are you wearing my shirt?" he asked.

"This thing?" she plucked at the soft fabric. It was the same one he gave her the first night she slept over at his place. When she realized that he had been sleeping on the couch since he moved to DC, surrounded by pictures of the people he lost, his scent lingering in the cushions. As she laid in the dark manufactured apartment, her heart broke for him. Torn away by his own selfless act of heroism from everyone and everything he had ever known. Steve had a life before joining the army, he had a future to look forward to after the war. It was something she never had. There wasn't a life before the Red Room — it was just existing from one day to the next, a hapless orphan girl dreaming silly grandiose dreams of being a prima ballerina. There wasn't a future after the Red Room — that was killed the day Madame B wrapped her cold thin fingers around her bony shoulder and accepted her into the program. In a way Natasha envied Steve for having a beginning and an end, even if the middle was harried and not at all what he was expecting, at least he had the bookends of his life, right? He nodded and she replied with a shrug. "Why?"

"Just surprised," he said, "I thought you'd leave everything in DC. Start fresh." He scooped more food into his mouth. "Surprised to see my shirt, is all."

"Well," she said, leaning over the back of her couch, a teasing smirk on her face. "If you want it back, Rogers, you're gonna have to pry it from my cold dead body." She smirked when he chuckled.

"That a challenge Romanoff?" he asked. She shrugged, watching him stick the fork into the container and closing it, before opening the fridge and taking the rest of the food she bought him. "Keep it," he said. She arched a brow. "It looks good on you." He closed the door with his hip. "Thanks for the food. I'll get back to you about the mission."

"Alright." She watched him walk pass her, heading to the door. "Steve?" she called out, trying to find a reason to stall, to keep him in her suite a little while longer, trying to figure out how to ask him to stay without cluing him in that she wanted him to. Nothing came to mind, no lie sounded good enough to convince him. His expecting look made her squirm. Swallowing, she gave him a lazy smile and said, "good night."

A blink. "Oh." That side smile that made her heart flutter. "Good night, Nat." And he left, the door hissing close behind him. The apartment felt colder and emptier without him. Natasha looked at the bottle of vodka, turned off the tv and went to bed, taking the vodka with her. Whatever happened next, she'll blame it on the vodka. It was always the vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	8. Surrender

The sounded of her fists thudding against the padded targets that Carol wore filled her head, consumed her being. Sweat stung her eyes, trickled down her nape, air burned in her lungs. "Maybe if you just came clean with Steve —"

"Can't." Stupid Bucky and his stupid request to keep his presents from Steve — why did she even agree to that? It had been three days since she asked Steve to help her with the mission. Three days and he hadn't said anything to her, and he made a point of avoiding her — he was over the corner, pounding away at a bag, every now and then she'll glance over in his direction. She slammed her fists into Carol's, grunting as she threw all her weight behind her blows. Fuck Steve for causing her to acknowledge her emotions. Fuck Matt for being a sanctimonious prick, for forcing her into this situation — he can totally swipe those documents and not let anyone know it was him, he's a lawyer, his tongue is made of silver. Fuck Bucky for refusing to let Steve know where he is, for trying to be a damn martyr and bear this burdensome cross by himself. Growling, she quickly jabbed her fists into the pads and then spun, aiming a round house at Carol's head. You know what, fuck men in general. They always seemed to cause problems and she had to clean up after them. Carol raised her hands, blocking the kick.

"Whoa," she said, "someone has pent up issues."

"More punching, less feelings talk." Natasha said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She'll punch her issues out of her system if she had to. Natasha glanced over Carol's shoulder; Steve was beating a bag. Watching him was hypnotic. The way his muscles bunched with each movement, the power behind his blows. How he clenched his butt cheeks before the strike hit. Damn, he had a lovely ass — taut enough to bounce a quarter off, round and full like a perfectly ripe peach. She wondered if he'd like her nipping those plump cheeks of his.

"Hey" — Carol tapped her forehead — "back in the game, girl. You can stare at his ass later."

"I wasn't staring," she said, tearing her eyes away from Steve's backside. How did science manage to make such a perfect specimen of the male species? Why did Steve feel the need to work out when she and Carol were at the gym together? It wasn't fair. As if he could hear her thoughts, he glanced at her, a confused look on his face. Their eyes met and she remembered being a girl again: training with Bucky on cold winter mornings with the floor and windows frosted over and her breath making puffs of steam, seeing the man beneath the Winter Soldier — fleeting smiles, kind blue eyes, a Louis Armstrong tune being hummed as they danced around the training room with her standing on his toes. During those ephemeral moments he would speak English, call her Dottie. Bucky was her first crush and her heart would flutter when he called her _lisichka_. Then she made a mistake, he struck her and broke her ribs — the Winter Soldier replacing the man. Her first heart beak was staring up at him through her confused tears and seeing cold emptiness in his eyes — frozen as the arctic wastes around the training facility. She learned two valuable lessons that day: Never reveal her heart to anyone for once another person knows the true nature of her heart they could easily exploit it and to never blindly trust anyone.

She had lived by those two lessons, burned them into her hippocampus so she'll never forget them. Steve challenged those lessons, actively worked at tearing them down and soothing the hurts inflicted by them. "Natasha," Carol said and went for her head again. Instinct took over: she grabbed Carol's wrist. Twisted until her friend gasped in surprised. Swiped Carol's feet from her. As Carol fell, she swung her leg up and around Carol's neck. The momentum hasten Carol's fall to the mats, which shuddered with a wooden metallic grunt from the springs beneath. Natasha squeezed her legs around Carol's throat. _Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill kill kill kill kill…_ the mantra thrummed in her blood, pounded in her ears. Training and conditioning blocked the outside world. The Girl was gone. The Black Widow remained. A painful tapping on her thigh wormed its way through the Widow's iron will.

"Oh Carol!" Natasha unlocked her ankles, letting go of her friend. "I'm sorry." Carol gasped, sucking in a great gulp of air just as Steve slipped into the ring. Carol sat up, shucking the padded gloves and rubbing her throat. Steve placed his hands on Carol's shoulders.

"You okay there, Air Force?"

"Peachy, Army," she said, wiggling away from Steve. "Though, I'd be careful going down on Natasha. Girl has killer thighs." She elbowed Steve, who had an adorable befuddled expression on his face. It didn't matter that Carol made light of the incident. The Black Widow squirmed, screaming in protest as the Girl wrestled it back down into submission. It would have been so easy to kill Carol. The Black Widow didn't have friends. The Black Widow was a finely crafted weapon, honed to a razor edge. A dark bedroom, a scared young woman with long brown hair and honey brown eyes, calloused hands around her wrists and her name — _Natasha_ — echoing in that dizzying space between dream and memory. Blue eyes — clear as glacial water, bright as the sky — piercing into the depths of her soul. "Natasha?" Carol said. The sound of her name drew her attention and she swallowed. "You with us?" she asked, reaching out to her, offering contact but letting her decide. "You with us, girl?"

Natasha turned from Carol's gaze — the blue was wrong, too dark. Almost an indigo, like deep twilight when the stars started to twinkle into existence. She met Steve's gaze — bright as the sky, clear as a mountain lake — "Steve." Natasha reached for him and practically fell into his arms, taking comforting in his bulky muscles encasing her, the deep _lub-dub, lub-dub_ of his heartbeat against her ear. The tension left her muscles, exchanging it with emotional exhaustion. A shudder passed through her body, once, twice, thrice. An equilibrium was reached between the Girl and the Black Widow — a truce that allowed her to function akin to a normal person, the reassembled version of Natalia Romanova. Steve's musk enshrouded her, calming her down. A shaky breath escaped her; she closed her eyes and took comfort in Steve's hand running up and down her back. "I think I'm done for today," she said, her voice rough and weak. "Training anyway."

"That's fine," Carol said, "the old fart kept distracting you anyway."

"Who you calling old, Chair Force."

"Well the Army clearly isn't scrambling to get you back on the front lines," Carol said, "so I guess it's because you're ninety-five and a half."

She felt Steve's chuckle more than heard it. "Correction," he said, "I'm ninety-six and a half."

Carol shrugged. "Still old." She grinned. "You have to be careful with him Natasha. Old men have delicate hearts, can't have too much excitement."

Her lips twitched, nuzzling Steve's breastbone — the source of his comforting scent. "I will," she whispered. Memories drifted in and out of her head: dancing on Bucky's toes with their breast coming out in icy puffs. Nikolai's shy stolen kiss. Alexi's warmth encasing her as they huddled beneath the quilts of their small home in Moscow. Bucky's cautious melancholic gaze as she traced the scar where metal met flesh. Matt's calloused hands mapping out the contours of her body as he memorized them with his lips. The man assign to making her a woman when she was fourteen. The heaviness of the gun as she pirouetted to the trill of violins, the bang of a gunshot a sinister juxtaposition to Tchaikovsky's tragedy of Odette. Body broken and sore, bloodied footprints from dancing until it was deemed perfect. Needles and drugs, straps and uncomfortable metal chairs with worn leather seats. Rubber mouthguard to protect her tongue when the electricity was sent through her body. Voices in the haze, asking her to repeat phrases, _Snow White_ and _Cinderella_ and _Sleeping Beauty_ on endless loops. _To make you sound like an American girl_ , the man in the white lab coat said. More needles jabbing into her flesh. Straps with cold buckles against her skin. Grotesque contoured medical instruments slipping between her legs. _Don't worry Natalia, this will make you feel better_.

A broken boy, lifeless in the snow, brain and blood haloing his skull. Whispers and tragic glances. _It was stillborn. The poor thing. It was stillborn_. More dancing until she swore her bones poked out from her toes. Dance. Kill. Dance. Train. Dance. Dance. Dance. More needles. _It'll never happen again Natalia, don't worry._ A woman without her blessed curse. A perfect weapon. Razor sharp and cold as the Russian winter that howled outside. Deadly beauty, like the spider of her namesake. Blood behind her and blood before her. Born of blood, made by blood, and one day undone by blood. A sea of red and she was drowning, choking —

"Nat?" Steve's voice broke through the memories. Bile rose in her throat and she pulled away, feeling sick. "Nat? You going to be okay?"

"Give her space Rogers," Carol said. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. The mats felt sticky and plastic. Sweat filled the air and old worn leather mingled with it. Fluorescent lights burned overhead and pushed back the memories. A gentle touch, goosebumps pricking her arm. Those eyes, bright and concern — endless calming blue.

"Why don't I take you to your room. A shower will help," Steve said, his hand slipping to her help and she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Why was she losing control? Was it because Bucky showed up yesterday? Matt asking her to do something for him. Normally, she had good control over the Black Widow, only letting that aspect of her out during missions. Steve lead her out of the gym, chatting aimlessly — she ignored his prattle. Her hands looked too pale; she clenched them a few times to coax blood flow back into her fingers. The elevator hummed as it ascended into the higher reaches of the tower. A few minutes late, the door to her suite hissed opened as she was standing in the white tile bathroom. Familiar soaps and shampoos and lotions lined the countertop. Her toothbrush in the charger, toothpaste beside it.

The familiarity tugged her back, weaving a iron thread around the Black Widow and locking her away until she was needed. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips as she rubbed her face, fingers tangling into her hair. The hair tie tangled around her fingers as she pulled it free; red tresses cascaded in a wave of wild vermillion around her face. Sweat dried to her skin, cause her to feel dirty and constricted. "Thanks," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Steve, who stood with his hands tucked into his armpits. "I'll be fine."

Steve shifted his weight. "What… happened down there?" he asked, trepidation coating his words. "Never seen you so relentless — or out of sorts."

A frown twisted her lips as she pushed her hair back. "Nothing. I'm fine." The words came out clipped, though it didn't phase him. A tense silence settled between them, and she pulled off the loose t-shirt she wore to reveal the black sports bra beneath. If Steve felt uncomfortable with her stripping in this fashion in front of him, he didn't say anything. Just kept his thousand yard stare, the concern burning into her skin. She offered him a little smile. "Really, I'm fine."

A curt nod. "Alright," he said, relaxing and heading to the door. "I'll be on my way then."

"Why don't you" — she licked her lips — "stay for tea. I'll just get cleaned up real quick."

Steve shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I have some things to do." He took a few more steps. She didn't want him to go, didn't want to be alone with her ghosts and demons and the horrors that haunted her mind-scape. The breath caught in her throat, her body reacting without conscious thought. She grabbed his hand, the warmth and callouses of his hand feeling calming and familiar.

"Wait, Steve," she said, squeezing his hand like a lifeline. If she held onto him, will he pull her out of the sea of blood or will she drag him under and they'll both drown in red?

"Hm?"

"Thank you," she said, stroking his knuckles with her thumb. "For taking me to my room, being here. I appreciate it."

He pulled his hand away and shrugged. "Just part of the job, Natasha." A half smile tugged at his lips. "Have to look after my teammates after all."

"Yes." It stung that he wanted to keep this professional. "I understand," she said. Her throat felt tight. "Are you sure you—"

"Nat, I think you need to clear your head. Get whatever funk in your brain out. Expose it to the light of day." He reached the door, it hissed opened. The guilt twisted in her gut as she realized Steve saw a side of her, she desperately tried to keep hidden from him. He knew she was a killer, but he never _seen_ that side of her, never witnessed the brutality that side of her could unless. The cold ruthlessness that didn't distinguished friend from foe but acted with all intensity to further her own survival. That was what they sharpened into the Black Widow. An apex predator that will do anything to survive — the mission and survival had merged into one singularity. It was the sanguinary brilliance of the Russian intelligence infrastructure. And she was the perfect product of such inhuman barbarism.

"I won't hurt you," she blurted out, fear chilling her limbs and freezing her joints, piercing her heart and constricting her lungs. "I won't. You're my friend." Carol was my friend and I almost killed her.

"I know," he said. And she believed him. "Go take a shower and unwind. Maybe a nap'll help."

Natasha nodded, watching him leave before heading back to the bathroom to take a shower. Stepping out of the shower the steam coiling around her damp towel covered body, she scrolled through her contact lists. This number didn't have a name attached to it and in all honesty, she didn't know if the number still worked. Still, she sent the text message and got dress. It felt like moving through molasses or having no real hurry. The motions felt automatic, as if she was detached from herself. It always felt like that after she came back from wherever she locked away the Girl inside her head whenever the Black Widow took over. If she stared at the mirror long enough, she could see the viper grin of the Black Widow just over her left shoulder, always reminding her of what she is: an apex predator.

Her phone buzzed, rattling on the bathroom countertop. Scooping it up she looked at the screen. The message contained a location to a bar — one of the seedier ones in New York. It wasn't too far. There was no need to reply. It was how it worked. She left the phone on the kitchen counter as she left her suite in the tower.

* * *

The bar was gloomy, smelling of booze and vomit (outside included piss) with a depressing miasma of hapless hopelessness. The dead ends of society, too consumed by all their faults and misfortunes to dare look into the light of the good things in life. A few drunks sat at the counter, already deep in their cups and talking in soft voices about their misery. One or two people sat at the tables, and two more at the booths lining the windows. Cars drove by, a few punk-ass kids shuffled along the sidewalk — fresh meat for the local gangs in the area. Nothing that her sweetest smile and murdering stare wouldn't chase away. This was the bleakness that people spoke of: the system orchestrated against them; society built to force them down; racism and sexism and homophobia nestled in the bosom of society, no doctor willing to pluck it out — it benefited _them_ while harming _us_. She felt a kinship with the mood — a discarded tool, no longer needed for what it was built for, struggling to be recrafted into a more acceptable fashion for this glittering gilded world. Her contact was in the middle booth, a black ball cap and a dark leather jacket on. She slipped in, smiling at the annoyed waitress that came over. "Same?" she asked, nodding to the silver thermos near her elbow.

"Yes," she said, smelling the coffee. The waitress sighed, swiping a cup from another booth and handing it to her. She smiled, filled her cup with coffee and took a sip. Black and thick as motor oil and bitter as bile. "How can you drink this stuff?"

Her contact took a long swallow. "You either drank it or you didn't get your morning joe," he said, his voice gravely. There was an empty deadness in those dark eyes of his. "So…" he took another sip. Her lips tugged upwards and she took another sip, schooling her face against the awful bitterness of the cheap coffee. Pepper had everyone spoiled with high end coffee.

"I heard what happened," she said. He sighed, gripping the cup tighter, staring at it with his haunted gaze. "I'm sorry. Know a little of what it's like learning that everything you thought you knew — especially about people you knew — trust is a fragile thing."

He nodded. "You think you know a man, after going through war zones and bullet storms. Watching buddies die. You think it'd bring out a man's true nature." He sniffed, rubbing his nose.

"It does," she said, tracing the rim of her cup. "Sometimes, you just… don't want to see it. The illusion is sweeter than the reality."

"Ain't that the truth," he said, finishing his coffee and pouring himself another cup. "I spared him." That was a surprise; she sat up straighter and gave him a small nod. "After everything that fucker did — what he put me through, what he took from me — I spared him."

"You're a good man," she said, "capable of mercy." If it had been her, she would have killed the man. The Black Widow didn't know mercy nor regret.

"Nah." He shook his head. "It wasn't mercy. Mangled his face so bad the docs had to stitch it back together." A lethal grin curled along his lips. "Told him I'll come back for him. No, it wasn't mercy" — the lethality spread to his eyes, a spark of life in pitiless orbs — "it was torment."

A shiver ran down her spine. Something resonated with her — his words, his deed, the homicidal look in his eye — one killer to another. Torture was easy, suffering was an art. An art she knew all to well and was a master at it. "Learned a little something in your Black Ops days eh, Frank?" She leaned back, drumming her fingers on the nicked yet polished tabletop. "About the art of suffering." Hurting a person yet keeping them alive, maximizing their sense of pain — Carol's soft throat crushing between her thighs. The deaden look in Steve's blue eyes.

Frank gave her a crooked smile though his expression remained unreadable. "You could say that." Another car drove by, hip-hop music blaring from its speakers, loud enough to be heard in the bar, even though it was a bit muffled. "Heard about what happened." He leaned forward. "I'm upset you didn't invite me to the Shield going away party, Romanoff."

Natasha smiled. "Afraid you'd've brought too many party favors with you, Castle." She poured herself some more coffee and took a sip. "It was all over the news, I'd be surprised if you didn't." Some news stations still replayed footage of the helicarrier crashing into the Potomac. Sometimes they even included soundbites of Steve's speech he gave to Shield to rally those still on the side of good and to expose those siding with Hydra. Everything seemed simpler back then. The enemy was exposed, it was easy to find the head of the snake. "Did it make trouble for you?" Cut off one head, two more will take its place.

"I think it helped expose that whole mess. You leaking the files, exposed everything. All the dirty dealings the various alphabet agencies had their grubby fingers in." He finished his coffee in two long swallows. "Heard about you and Red" — a sad twist of his mouth — "sorry."

If she thought about it, Matt cheating on her stung — _Natasha's boyfriend_ — why had Steve said that? The door opened, another drunk stumbled in, tie askew. He sat down next to the other two drunks, singling to the bartender he wanted a shot of whatever they were having. The bartender sighed, shambling over to provide the requested liquor. "Not so bad. Matt and I — we didn't see eye to eye."

"Yeah, well at least you didn't have to see him mope after those ninjas killed his girlfriend." Frank dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his wallet, slapping a twenty on the table. Natasha frowned.

"Karen's alive." Alive and well and horny for Matt. "I saw her and Matt a few days ago at his office."

"Not Karen," Frank said. "Another chick. Dressed like a ninja too. Poor girl died in his arms."

Natasha scowled. "He got back together with _her_?" Frank arched a brow. "I can't believe him! That two timing — I don't understand what he sees in that ninja skank." Frank chuckled. "I'm going to cut his balls off."

"Don't bother. Karen already made the threat." Frank leaned back. "I even offered to lend her my ka-bar."

"Really?" she asked. He nodded; a malicious smirk spread across her lips. "Good." Silence settled between them like a comfortable old friend. Music began to play in the bar, soft and crooney, something old that Steve would probably recognize if he was here. A pang of emotion fluttered in her chest as she remembered how he held her, walked her back to her suite. Carol's hopeful look, singling to her that there's no hard feelings, that they were still friends. She understood what it's like to be unmade and reassembled. "You aren't staying here." Frank shook his head. "Where?"

"Dunno. West. Somewhere they wouldn't know my face." Frank watched the three drunks at the counter. The men laughed, hiccups bursting between the chuckles. For a moment they forgot their cares, lulled into a stupor of feeling better about their misery. "I'm happy for Karen."

"Me too."

"Red really wormed his way in deep with her. Got in nice and close, found all her tender spots." Frank had this almost wistful smile on his face, and for a moment Natasha glimpsed the man he was before everything: The father, the husband, the brother in arms, the best friend. A noble man with a good heart, a warrior in the ancient sense of the word. That was the funny thing: killers were always someone before all the blood and death. There first victims were always that person they were before. Expect for killers like her: there was no before. There never was. She couldn't remember who she was before the Red Room — if there was a before it was like a dream. "I told her to hold onto him, because you know those people that can get in that close — that can _hurt_ you like that" — he nodded gravely — "are the ones worth holding on to."

"I don't have friends, Frank," she said, "you know that."

Frank snorted. "That some bullshit they taught you in your fancy Russian spook school?" He smiled at the waitress when she came back around. The girl didn't return it. Instead she grabbed the twenty from the table, the cup and the thermos before walking away. Natasha watched her: eighteen, a high school dropout, from a broken home with an abusive father; she given up on achieving whatever dream she had as a little girl, settled for the hopelessness of working dead end jobs with dead end boyfriends, one or two babies with a father she doesn't remember ever fucking. A sad fate really. "And I wasn't talking about that."

She knew that. Frank could see through her. They were cut from the same cloth after all. While he was just a Marine, he still had an assassin's gumption, that uncanny ability to read a person's entire life story by looking in their eyes. "I need your help after the holidays."

"You know how to get ahold of me." Frank leaned in close. "Nat."

"It came out today," she whispered, meeting his gaze. The Girl was afraid of it, wanting to run and hide from the intensity of it. The Black Widow stared it down and Natasha needed the Widow's strength. "I… I don't know what happened. It just — I reacted. And… Bozhe moy… he saw."

"He's worked with you before," Frank said, "he knows you have a very particular set of skills." He shrugged. "Hasn't scared him away yet." Frank titled his head. "Ever been in a firefight?"

"Frank, you know —"

"Not the type you spooks get in. I mean a real firefight. With bullets and blood and artillery going off. Not knowing if the next bullet's gonna go through your heart. It's different. Spies are all about precision: get in, do the job, get out. Soldiers… are battering rams." He rubbed his face. "Different mentality, Romanoff, but horrors are horrors all the same."

Natasha sighed. Frank had a point. She wasn't a soldier; she was a spy. Her world was all about secrets and shadows. Steve didn't understand that — or maybe he did, and she just didn't want to believe it. "Not to that extent. I've always kept them in check. Only using them when needed. He's never _seen_ the monster." She hung her head. "I… If he gets any closer, then he'll see the rotten core of me — I can't…"

"You need to hold onto him, Nat," Frank said, taking her hand. For a man dripping with so much blood that he smelled of death, he could be surprisingly gentle. "Hold onto him and never let him go. He's close enough to hurt you, so hold on tight."

Natasha looked at him, the tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. "That's the thing, Frank, I always hurt those that get close enough to hurt me first."

A snort escaped his lips. "What's that bullshit I hear?" She frowned. "Take it from me — someone who's lost _everything_ — I know that pain. Its still with me, eating me away bit by bit. You're making excuses now because you're gonna end up happy." Frank looked down. "I'd give my right arm to have my family back."

"Frank—"

"No, you listen to me Romanoff," he said, his voice stern. For a moment the Marine lieutenant was back, the leader commanding his men in battle, a rock in the sea of blood. "Rogers is a big boy — he fought Nazis and God knows what else during WWII. Probably did things equal to what we've done. War is hell —"

"I know that," she hissed, pulling her hand away. "I'm not some naïve pup."

"Then stop acting like it. Rogers is capable of beating your demons into submission — heard he wrestled aliens during the Battle of New York. Think he can handle whatever you got lurking in your closet."

She stood up, a maelstrom of emotions churning in her heart. It hurt knowing that Frank saw through her guises, walked over her walls as if they weren't there. It shouldn't surprise her; they were the same type of monster. "Aliens are a lot different than the monsters we create." She headed towards the door.

"You're full of shit," he said, stopping her at the door. She looked back at him. "You know that, right?" She left that bar.

* * *

It was almost nine o'clock by the time she got back to the tower. The employees of Stark Industries on the lower levels had gone home. The Avengers were either in their personal quarters or had gone out for the evening. Natasha took the elevator, riding it to Steve's floor — she didn't know why, but the idea of going to her empty suite bothered her. Talking to Frank hadn't helped eased her guilt. JARVIS — upon entering the elevator — had informed her that Carol left several messages inquiring if she was alright. "Tell Carol I'm fine. I'll talk to her in the morning."

"Of course, Agent Romanoff," the AI said as the elevator hummed its way into the sky. It sighed at Steve's floor and she stepped out. A soft melody floated its way down the hall: ' _Kiss me once, kiss me twice, kiss me once again…'_ The door hissed open when she approached it. The song drifted through the suite and she could hear Steve's tenor singing along to it. The orange glow of streetlamps on her left caught her attention, a door was left ajar, letting in enough light to beckon her. Curious, she padded across his living room on cat silent feet and slipped into the room.

The streetlamps below helped cast strange shadows on the walls, the city twinkling before her. Red and gold and white lights flashing, neon colors of the rainbow on display to draw in the nightlife of New York. It took her eyes a moment to adjust and the shadows to materialize into familiar things: an easel, paints, brushes in water, an artist's palette, a half-painted ballerina on a canvas. Stepping closer she felt an uncanny sense of familiarity with the figure: the vermillion tresses, the viridian of her eyes. Natasha's breath caught in her throat. She knew Steve drew and painted in his spare time. He had showed her a few of his pieces. Amazing work. He even told her that before the war he was trying to put himself through art school.

Tears stung her eyes. Why did it hurt knowing this was how he saw her? A graceful ballerina full of angelic poise. A beautiful fragile thing with a will of iron. A part of her wanted to find the red paint and splash it all over the canvas: she was a filthy creature covered in blood, not worthy of being immortalized in paint and canvas. The lights flicked on. "Nat? What are you doing in here?"

Natasha turned, swallowing when she saw Steve in the door frame, wearing loose fitting sleeping pants and rubbing a hand towel against his damp hair. "Sorry, the door was open." She shrugged. "I was curious."

"C'mon, I'll make you some tea." He stepped back and to the side, allowing her to slip out of the room. The door clicked behind her.

"You don't have to make me anything. I'm good," she said. He arched a brow. "Really. Water will be fine." She wandered over to the couch and sat down. Steve came over with a glass of water and she took it. It felt better holding the glass, gave her hands something to focus on. They sat there, sipping their water in silence. Natasha wondered when he'll say something about the painting, but he didn't. Instead he sighed.

"We were in Northeastern France — I think, or maybe it was Germany — near the French-German border. The Allies were advancing, pushing back the Nazis and we were there to root out any Hydra cells that may have gone unnoticed." Steve sipped his water. "Well, something went wrong in one of the small villages" — he shrugged — "bad intelligence, I guess. We got most of the villagers out before Bucky and I were cut off from the rest of the Commandos. Hold up in a barn with a young family: new baby, cute little thing" — the smile on his lips was fleeting and melancholic — "I heard the Nazis coming closer. They were looking for us. One of their men saw that we ran into a building but didn't know which. They began to search. One by one they got closer and closer. The baby was crying. They would hear it soon." He took a long swallow of his water. "Bucky's French was better than mine — he always had a knack for languages — told the mother that if she didn't quiet her baby the Nazis would find us and kill us." Steve set his empty glass on the table, lacing his fingers between his knees. "The Nazis looked in the barn we hid in but didn't look in the loft. Once I gave the all clear we climb down and ran towards the forest and met up others. I noticed the young mother was lagging behind. I went to her to see if she needed help. That's when I noticed her tears and her baby against her breast." Steve gave a shuddering breath and ran his hand down his face. "She said: Il ne pleurera pas, il ne pleurera pas. Il sera silencieux, je le promets, il ne pleurera plus." He sniffed, blinking, a tear dripped down his cheek. "She smothered her own baby to keep us hidden from the Nazis."

"Steve."

"Hiroshima, Nagasaki — I was in the ice by then, but that's just two examples. Dresden, another. Normandy. I remember hearing stories from the sailors that the Russians shot their own men that day than ran away — claiming it was desertion. I still remember seeing the prisoners from Ohrdruf. Just before we caught up with Zola and Bucky fell. Bucky and I didn't sleep that night. The things I did… the things I saw others do." He shook his head, a haunted look appearing in his eyes. "We headed through a village in Belgian. Quiet as death and then we heard the drone of ten thousand flies. Bodies piled high. Men, women, children. All executed. The entire village butchered."

Natasha took a sip of the water. It tasted like metal and chlorine. "You don't have to tell me these things, Steve."

Steve didn't seem to hear her. Instead he continued. "Zola was a geneticist. One village near a Hydra outpost, we saw mutated bodies" — he stopped, pinching his nose — "nightmares. Those dead things… they were nightmares. I shot two German soldiers. It was either me and my team or them. When I walked up to them… Jesus, Nat, they couldn't have been older than sixteen. Just kids. I killed them. I killed kids." She took his hand, squeezing it. The children's hospital in Osaka, burning as the people screamed inside. "Hydra liked to dress up their POWs in Nazi uniforms, tie rifles to their hands and send them out to face us. We killed them… our own men. One of my first orders I ever made was to call an artillery strike on a Hydra base. Blew it sky high. When we dug through the rubble… we found so many POWs. Their blood is on my hands." He turned and looked at her, a lopsided smile on his face. "I've done things I'm not proud of, things that keep me from sleeping at night" — he stroked her cheek — "it's a little funny that you'd think I'd be afraid of you."

"Steve…" She pulled away and studied him, seeing him in a new light. Not the golden pinnacle of American idealism. A man — a soldier — with horrors and nightmares all his own. "I didn't know," she said. "You never talk about the war."

"Don't like to," he said, finishing his glass of water and setting it on the table. "Hurts too much. Remembering what I did… what I lost."

"I understand," she said, "I don't like talking about my past either. Be better if I could forget everything." She stood up, taking her glass and his to the kitchen and setting them in the sink. "What are we doing, Steve?" she asked, turning around and bracing herself against the countertop. He shrugged. "What are we to each other?"

"You said we're friends," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread on his pants. Natasha bit her lip, remembering the warmth she felt laying in his bed, wrapped up in his arms. The way he spoke about her when he told her what Matt was missing out on.

"Do you think I can stay the night?" she asked. Steve stood up, walking towards her. The lights from the window illuminating his body, the shadows defining the contours of his muscles. Her heart beat quickened, her mouth dried up, and heat pooled between her loins. Surrender, surrender, surrender, the night whispered to her as Steve bracketed her against the counter with his lean and powerful body. His blue eyes smoldered with a maelstrom of emotions she didn't want to think about too much.

Each beat of her heart felt like an eternity. An invisible weight settled on her chest. Steve leaned forward, cupping her nape with his large calloused hand and kissed her.

A heartbeat, another and he began to pull away. The abyss stared back at her, the monsters in the dark writhe and twisted, tentacles reaching for her. She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back again, kissing him, stepping off the metaphorical cliff into the churning abyss below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studio
> 
> Please review, I really like hearing what you guys have to say about the story.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	9. Hold Fast

How they managed to find his bedroom without knocking over every piece of furniture was a damn miracle in her opinion. Steve had scooped her up after she kissed him, her legs wrapping around his hips and they made their way to his bedroom like some lumbering awkward beast that couldn't stop kissing each other. His mouth tasted of toothpaste and the water he drank, a heady combination. His fingers had slipped beneath her shirt, leaving searing trails along her lower back. A shiver ran down her spine, quick breathes stolen between kisses. The firmness of his mattress cushioned by the comforter and blankets met her back, cocooning her in softness. Steve bracketed his body around her, kissing an intense trail from her lips to her collarbone, breath moist against her skin.

Lust darkened his blue eyes to the smoldering azure gleam of sapphires; it stoke the fire in her belly. She licked her lips, fingers dancing tantalizing light across his bare chest, memorizing the divots and swells of his muscles, feeling the steady tattoo of his heart beneath her palm. "Are you…" she looked away, shivering as he slipped his hand beneath her shirt, his palm sliding up her smooth stomach, thumb brushing against the knot of scar tissue by her hip. "Steve."

"Yes, doll?" he practically purred that against her neck. It sent shivers down her spine as her arms wrapped around his neck, hands threading through his hair. She could feel his erection against her inner thigh. It was more of a reflex than a conscious thought: she twitched her hips and he ground down against her; she moaned, arching into his body. The strength coiled in each muscle belying how gentle he held her. Her hands slid from his hair to his board shoulders and gently, she pushed against him.

"You sure about this?" she asked, thumb running along his collarbone. "I know this is probably your first time and I want to make it special for you and" — she frowned when he chuckled — "what's so funny?" she asked. Here she was trying to make his first time special and he was _laughing_ , the nerve of him.

A sly smirk spread across his lips and he pressed a kiss to her brow. "Never said I was a virgin," he said. The words stilled her, catching her like a deer in headlights; her eyes widened. "You just assumed."

"You… How… I thought—" she was lost for words, stock still when he kissed her again. "When?"

"My twenty-sixth birthday in '44. Bucky and some of the Commandos took me to a brothel in a small town outside of Nancy." He teased her shirt over her head; she helped him, wiggling it off and tossing it to the side. Steve hummed, tracing the lace tops on the cups of her bra. "Her name was Angélique, pretty thing too. Taught me a lot. Went back to her a few times while we stayed there." He looked away. "And uh… once with Peggy."

"So, it wasn't your first kiss since 1945," she said, trying to keep the twinge of some emotion she didn't want to think about out of her voice: it wasn't guilt or maybe it was, regret? She wasn't sure. It made her feel like she shouldn't be doing this with him, that she was second best — his replacement for the woman he really wants. "Makes me wonder if you still need practice."

"Let me kiss you again and I'll show you just how much practice I still need." He kissed between the valley of her breasts. The chuckle that escaped her turned into a pleasant moan, and she nodded encouragingly.

"Show me what Angélique taught you," she said, and Steve complied.

* * *

The first thing she realized upon waking was how warm and comfortable she was and that she was sore between her legs. Thinking back, she realized it had been a long time since she last had sex. Probably back in 2012 with Matt before she left for DC. A little smile spread across her lips, silently thanking Angélique for teaching Steve to be such an amazing lover. He still needed some refinement in certain techniques, but he was a quick learner. It had been a wonderful night and one of the first in a long while that she slept through. The first orange rays of dawn seeped into the room, the hum of the tower's electrical components soft and soothing. Outside it was still early enough that none of the New York traffic could be heard through the window. The silence was broken only by a sharp beeping sound. Steve groaned and shut it off. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Five," he said, his voice thick with sleep as he rolled back onto his side and pulled her closer, burying his nose into her nape; a huff of breath tickled her skin. "Usually get up for my run around now."

"Why don't you?" she asked, as his hand snaked down her arm and threaded with her hand. There was something peaceful about being in his arms. Warm and secure. She could stay like this all day.

"Rather stay in bed."

"Don't deviate from your routine on my account," she said, "I don't mind waiting or I could come with you."

"Nope," he said. "Gonna stay right here. Don't feel like getting up anyway." His other hand gave her breast a gentle squeeze before he rolled onto his back and stretched. The way his muscles popped against his skin, the curve of his lower ribs and his tight abs — the Athenians waxed poetry about such anatomical perfection — he pulled her against his side, as if he needed to maintain contact with her, stroking the curve of her hip. A relaxed hum escaped his lips and they let the silence settled in around them. The weak morning light chasing away the shadows yet deepening them in the nooks and crannies. Natasha sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to his pec while her hand ran along his stomach. Steve hummed, eyes drooping. The silence stretched on, lazy and tranquil. Natasha felt her eyes droop again. Snuggling next to Steve was like snuggling against a heater. "You didn't say anything," he said, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" she looked at him, propping her chin on his shoulder. "About what?"

"I didn't use a condom," he said, the pink creeping into his cheeks. "Don't think I have any to be honest. Need to go to the corner store and get some."

"No, you don't," she said. Feeling him so intimately last night had thrilled her; the thick slick glide of him, straining her walls — a shudder ran down her spine. "I'm clean, you're clean" — he arched a brow at her — "I read your medical files" — he huffed, shaking his head — "and there's no need to worry about an unplanned pregnancy." She buried her nose into his shoulder, drinking in his musky scent and praying he didn't press the issue. She wasn't ready to explain to him what the Red Room did to her, what they took away from her.

"So, it is true," he said, shifting in bed to look at her. "I couldn't — I didn't want to believe it."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, her walls going up. Did Steve read her file? Impossible, Fury had made sure all the experiments the Red Room did to her had been blacked out, secured, it wasn't even recorded in the official Shield records that she dumped online. Fury was the only man that knew the full extent of her biochemical, physical and genetic modifications. If Steve learned that she was a product of the Russians tinkering with Erskine's early formula — she wasn't sure how he'd feel about that. Fury had told him that Peggy Carter had decreed that any and all blood samples Steve had given after Erskine's death needed to be destroyed; Fury had extended that decree to destroying all samples containing Steve's genetic material be destroyed after it's need had ran its course. "Steve?"

"When Sam and I were poking around in the Ural Mountains, we found an old training facility. Sam couldn't read the Russian — I could, well… JARVIS did all the heavy lifting— Tony installed him into my phone instead of Googley—"

"You mean google?" she asked, not bothering to hide the amusement in her voice.

"Yeah, that… anyway — we saw pictures. Girls strapped down, tubes and wires coming from their bodies. Many of them dead." Steve swallowed. "They weren't named. Just numbered. Various combinations of drugs and chemicals, electro-shock procedures." It made her sick knowing he had found one of the Red Room facilities. "Reminded me of the death camps."

"Steve." A sigh escaped her. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"They did that to Bucky too," he said, "didn't they?"

"The Red Room serum is derived from whatever Zola did to Bucky and a sample of Erskine's prototype formula."

"The one Schmidt used on himself?" She nodded. Steve didn't say anything, just dragged his hand down his face. "How did they get ahold of that?"

"Lyudmila Antonovna Kudrin. She was the KGB's top biochemist. Twisted cunt," Natasha said. "Liked me the best. Said I was the strongest, the angriest, that I never forgave my parents for abandoning me." She closed her eyes. "I don't know how she got it. I don't even know if she was a part of the war effort back then. She didn't seem to age though. So, she could've been." Natasha shrugged. "I was her favorite guinea pig." Natasha pulled away, swinging her legs out from under the covers and staring at her feet, the plush carpet molding around her toes. "I'm sterile."

"Pardon?" Steve sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. "Nat, what do you mean by that?"

She couldn't look at him. Couldn't face him as she divulged her terrible secret; one of the things that made her a monster — her greatest source of shame. She flinched when he touched her shoulder. "I can't get pregnant, Steve." He sucked in a breath. "After Clint pulled me out, Hill and Coulson arrested Kudrin for illegal human experimentation that violated several articles of the Geneva Convention. I got a few hours alone with her — off the record, a favor from Fury — and she told me" — the bile welled up in her throat — "that pregnancy was an _illness!_ A _weakening_. That the fetus grossly distorts my body's functions at a physical and biochemical level. That it sucks as much nourishment from the mother as it possibly can; running hostile biochemistry that tries to turn my body into a diabetic, to force up my blood sugar by suppressing insulin production" — she held back her tears, but she shook and wrapped her arms around herself — "Kudrin said that the system she build into my body will recognize it all as an attack and respond accordingly." She swallowed down the bile. The baby she had, the tiny little thing with blue lips and grey skin. They had taken her dead baby from her and made sure she'd never have one again. "Kudrin said my body will automatically miscarry, said it was a fail-safe. No Black Widow can ever have a child." She turned to Steve, the anger at the injustice of it all burning hot as ten thousand suns. "And then she had the gall to _apologize_ to me! Me! Said she was sorry, that the government wanted _warriors_ not mothers! She was only doing her duty to the Motherland! She was only being a good comrade!" The laugh that tore from her throat was bitter and caustic. "What a load of bullshit. I saw the gleam in her eyes — the pride — she made the perfect Amazon. A woman warrior: all the strength and skill and speed of the best fighters without all the nasty icky stuff like menstrual cycles and babies that plague women." She ran her hand through her hair. "I was her perfect experiment."

Steve didn't say anything, she didn't expect him to. There was nothing he could've said to assuage the hurt in her soul. Instead, he scooted closer to her and pulled her into his arms. At first, she struggled — weakly, but still she put up a fight until she gave in and sank into his secure warmth. The sound of his heartbeat calmed her nerves, letting the tears come silent and unbidden. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

"No," she said, her lips brushing his chest. "I'm sorry that I can't give you what you deserve: a family, children."

"That's sweet," he said. She looked at him. "That you think I deserve anything. That I deserve children." She frowned. "Look, Nat, we — this thing between us — I know you aren't the white picket fence type and I'm not sure if I'm the white picket fence type anymore myself" — he sighed — "I don't need to define what we have Nat. All I need is for both of us to be happy."

Was she happy? It was an odd question, one she never let herself puzzle out before. Yet, every time she was with Steve: from his first awkward days at Shield, to spending a rare Saturday off with him muddling through IKEA instructions while eating pizza and sipping ice cold beers — cause the landlord in his apartment was on strike and refusing to turn on the air conditioning even though it was a hundred degrees outside with ninety-five percent humidity — or on a mission with him and gently teasing him. There was always a lightness to her when she was with him, as if she could let some of her walls down and show him the woman behind the Black Widow. Maybe she could allow herself this glimmer of happiness. "Are you happy?" she asked, snuggling into his embrace.

"Yeah," he said, his voice soft. "I am." He shifted, pulling her with him as he laid down. She smiled. "I haven't felt happy in a long while. I remember when Fury gave me the address to the nursing home she was at in DC." Steve didn't say anything for several long moments. "I was so happy. After the debriefing, I left as soon as I could, changed and bought some flowers" — a weak bitter laugh escaped him — "in my head, I kept picturing Peggy as I remembered her: young, red lips, pale skin, chocolate tresses curled in that iconic 40s style — that red dress she wore one night to the Officer's Club." She waited for him to gather himself, she could hear the tears in his voice, the melancholy. "I was excited and hoping for our dance. Then I got there, a nurse smiled and lead me to her room. She called me Daniel when she saw me."

"Her husband?" she asked.

"Yeah" — a ragged sighed escaped his lips — "I told her no, that it was me, Steve. She broke down. Said I was alive… and that it had been so long, so long. I hugged her and — Jesus, Nat — she was so thin. I was afraid I would snap her like a toothpick. It was so jarring seeing her like that. I was stupid thinking that she hadn't changed in seventy years. That she'd still be the Peggy I remembered."

"It wasn't stupid," she said, cupping his face. His tears were hot against her fingertips. "It's not Steve. You were being hopeful."

"A part of me still loves her Nat. A part of me wishes I had told her to get Howard, jumped outta the plane — done _something_ to save myself." He pulled his face from her hand. "It felt like a few days for me — it had been seventy years for her. She moved on, gotten married, had children, a successful career. She told me the same thing before Project: Insight happened. And I'm trying, Nat. I really am but —"

"It hurts," she said.

"Yeah. It does."

"I know," she said. "I know it does, Steve, but I'm here. Clint and Carol and Thor and Tony and Bruce — we're all here. I know it's not the same, but you aren't alone."

Steve kissed her forehead; a small smile spread across her lips. "I know and thank you." He traced her jaw, a tender look in his eyes. "And you're not alone either Nat. I'm here for you, so is Clint and Carol and Bruce. Not sure about Thor and Tony, but I know they'll try their best when you need it. They'll support you."

She smiled. "I know," she said, "and I know I'm not Peggy… and I'm only… I know I'm not your first choice…" It hurt saying that, but it was the truth. Steve stared at her, eyes wide and face slack. She frowned. "Don't look at me like that Steve."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he said. She huffed. "This isn't a competition Nat! I love Peggy. She was my first love and you're—"

"Steve" — Natasha pulled away, gathering the blankets around herself. "I don't want to play second fiddle to the love of your life — the woman you lost because you're a self-sacrificing idiot." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her chin from wobbling; holding back her tears. The Black Widow didn't have lovers, the Black Widow only had targets. Connections meant weakness, things her enemies could exploit. She didn't want to bring that down on Steve. He deserved better than someone like her.

"Natasha," Steve said, turning her around to face him. "Peggy was my first love, the first woman that believed in me" — he shook his head, a guilty expression on his face — "and then I stood her up for our date for seventy years because — as you said — I'm a self-sacrificing idiot." A crooked smile spread across his lips. "But in the end, I guess it was a good thing. I got to meet you" — he cupped her cheek and though she tried to fight against it, she gave into his touch, leaning her cheek into his palm — "You're not a second choice, Nat, you never will be. You're so much more than that. You know I love you" — he smiled, and it was like looking into the noon day sun after a long and terrible winter — "you're my second chance at finding the right partner."

The winter's cold came rushing back, running chills down her spine as she watched Steve's eyes widen. A knot of worry twisted in her gut like a ball of anxious snakes; his hand slipped from her face. "Steve?" she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs loud enough that he could surely here. "What did you say?" It felt surreal, a strange buoyancy swelled inside her. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined herself as a second chance for someone to find happiness.

"That we're here for you; you're not alone as you think you are." Steve ran his hand through his hair. He didn't meet her gaze.

Natasha stared. Fear tugged at her, whispered to her to come towards it, to run away from this maelstrom of confusing emotions. After getting nearly blown up by Hydra, Steve had told her he was always honest: did that mean what he said was true? That he loved her? That she was his second chance? Frank told her to hold onto Steve like her life depended on it. The thing was: she was afraid that if she allowed herself to love him back, he'll end up hurt or worse — dead. "Rogers, what did you say?" Ice seeping into her tone.

"Peggy was my first love and I stood her up for our date for seventy years." He frowned. Typical, he was avoiding the question. Steve was scrambling every which way in an effort to steer the subject into calmer waters.

"No." She shook her head. "The part before that." Now she _knew_ he was doing this deliberately. He knew exactly what she was driving at and he was intentionally avoiding the topic. "You know what I mean. I want to know what you said?"

A crooked smirk spread across his lips. "I'm sorry Nat, but I'm an old man —"

"Playing the old man card now, huh?" she asked, jabbing a finger into his sternum. "You don't look like an old man, Rogers."

His large strong fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist. "Well, I am" — he pulled her against his chest; she squeaked, laughing as his arms wrapped around her body — "and my memory isn't as good as it used to be." He kissed her and hungrily, she returned it.

They parted, which left her breathless, a dusting of pink on her fair cheeks. "I call bullshit on that." She titled her chin up for another kiss, savoring in how soft his lips felt against hers.

"Mmm" — he pulled away, nuzzling her nose — "call it all you like. It's the truth." A devilish glint sparked in his blue eyes. "Just like I know you're most vulnerable spot."

"Huh?" she blinked. He struck, fingers lightly digging into the skin on her ribs. She laughed, squirming against him as she tried to twist away from his fingers. "Shit, Steve!" She smacked his hands until he stopped; still he held her close. The dawn was creeping further along, the grey turning into a clear pale blue and the cacophony of New York began to stir with the rising sun. "You're serious about not running today?" she asked, as thing settled down and she found herself enjoying how he ran his hand up and down her belly.

"As serious as a heart attack." She could feel his head shake by how his nose drew a line back and forth along her nape. "Got everything I want right here," he said, pulling her closing and his hand that was beneath her found hers and he laced their fingers together.

"Steve?" she asked, his warmth and security enveloping her. He gave a soft hum followed by an even softer kiss to her neck. Bliss — that's the feeling that settled over her like a warm blanket — _bliss_. "Guess we can sleep in." She snuggled closer to him and he tugged the covers over their bare bodies. It only took a few moments for her eyes to droop and sleep settle over her once more.

* * *

Natasha woke up only because she sensed someone else in the room besides Steve. Groggily, she opened her eyes and saw Carol in a pair of well-worn jeans and equally well-worn grey Air Force hoodie, her blonde hair pulled back in a quick ponytail. "You awake, Nat? Did Army wear you out?"

"Didn't you learn about doors in basic, Air Force?" Steve grumbled. "And knocking on them?"

Carol shrugged. "I've always been a rule breaker at heart, you know that." It took Natasha a moment to realize that Carol was in Steve's room and neither of them heard her knock. "You look like you slept well, Nat."

"I'm surprised you made colonel, Carol," Steve said, sitting up, the sheets pulling around his waist. Natasha shifted, the sheets revealing the tops of her breasts. Carol whistled low; Steve flushed and Natasha silently planned Carol's murder. Nobody would ever find the body, she'll get Pepper to hold a press conference, tell the world Captain Marvel had an important mission offworld and wouldn't be back any time soon.

"So _that's_ how far it goes down," Carol said, "always wondered how deep you blushed Rogers." She looked at Nat. "Also, see you two finally got laid." She clasped her hands in prayer. "No more unresolved sexual tension between you two. I think everyone here is gonna be a lot happier, we can stop walking on eggshells."

"Carol." Natasha groaned, slipping her hand beneath her pillow only to remember that her Glock and throwing knife weren't there. She didn't think about bringing them with her. "Steve, can I borrow your shield?"

"Uh… why?"

"I'm going to throw it at Carol's head." The hiss that escaped her was feral and venomous; Carol didn't look nervous. Natasha sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist and she smacked Steve's hand away when he tried to cover up her naked breasts. "Where's your shield?"

"In my closet," he said, "honestly, Natasha, have some common decency." He tried to cover her up again. She smacked his hand again.

"Steve, Carol has the same parts I do. It's not like she hasn't seen it before." Still, Steve persisted, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close to him. "Damn it, Rogers." It was thanks to years of training that she didn't blush, instead she scowled at Carol and her overly pleased smirk. "Why are you here?" she groused, trying to mask that she did enjoy Steve's thumb running along her hip bone. Carol plopped herself on the foot of the bed.

"It's almost one in the afternoon ― I got worried. It's unlike either of you to sleep so late," Carol said, picking up the fraying string of her hoodie. Natasha grabbed her phone on the nightstand and frowned when she saw that the clock read 12:45. "Second, Pepper wants to take us ― you, me and Maria ― dress shopping for that gala we have to go to Friday."

Natasha frowned. There was another gala Friday? Besides the one Matt wanted her to infiltrate for him? "A gala?" she asked, giving in and leaning against Steve's chest. Carol smirked. "For what?"

"Some fundraising thing for some Congressman" ― Carol waved her hand dismissively ― "Senator what's-his-face. Wants the Avengers to endorse his reelection campaign. Thinks that'll make him appeal more to the people" ― Carol rolled her eyes ― "and since Project Insight happened, we've kinda been sullied a little so Pepper thinks this is a good chance to garner public favor" ― she flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling; Natasha nudged her side with her toe ― "mando fun times."

"Hooray," Steve said, dryly. "And here I was hoping I didn't have to do anything today." He dropped a kiss to Natasha's shoulder, and she let the little content hum escape her. "What about us guys?"

"Pepper's having a tailor come around three to get all of you fitted for tuxes. Even Thor," Carol said, her lips twitching. "He's going to complain, but this is a black-tie event and whatever fancy Asgardian outfit he wants to wear will look out of place."

"Senator what's-his-face wants Thor there?" Natasha's eyes widened. Thor was usually left out of public events for the sole reason he didn't really understand Earth culture ― and what Earth culture he did understand was roughly nine centuries out of date.

"I'm babysitting him." Carol shrugged, her hands falling to her stomach.

A wicked good smirk spread across her lips. "Oh poor baby, that sounds so difficult. Babysitting the God of Thunder" — her eyes darkened — "hopefully nobody catches you in a broom closet debauching him." 

Carol's face turned pink, her hands glowing as she curled them into fists. "You're lucky we're friends." Steve snickered. "So up and at 'em lovebirds. Pepper wants to leave soon." She rolled onto her stomach. "What's with the frown?"

"Oh, nothing," Natasha said, placing a tender kiss to Steve's cheek as she slipped from his warm embrace. She grabbed his discarded shirt and pulled it over her head. "I just have a murder to plan." Carol arched her brow.

"Nat," Steve said, "this gala is supposed to be to improve our public image not tarnish it further." She shimmied into her discarded panties, wiggling her buttcheeks ― knowing full well that Steve was watching her.

"I'll explain later," she said. "I'll meet you down in the lobby in five, okay Carol."

"Copy that, Romanoff," Carol said, floating off the bed and landing lightly on her feet, before leaving the room. Once Carol had gone, Natasha turned to Steve. It was so tempting to just stay in bed with him. She had plenty of evening dresses fitting for a senator's gala that she could wear; she didn't need to go and buy a new one. Natasha crawled over the bed and up to Steve, kissing him hungrily and humming when his hands pushed down one side of his shirt to expose her shoulder.

"Don't make it harder for you to leave," he said against her lips, his voice husky. She nipped his lip, slipping her tongue in to wage a lustful dance with his. "Natasha."

"That mission I asked you about… it's this gala. Matt thinks the senator is dirty. In with the Kingpin."

"Who?" Steve asked, leaning back on his hands. She pouted, straddling his lap as she slipped her arms around his neck; her fingers teased the short hairs at the base of his skull. "And Murdock's your contact?"

"Mmhmm." She didn't want to talk shop right now. She was pretty sure Steve could work his magic in under five minutes if she pushed his buttons right ― it was tempting to find out. "That's why I wanted you."

"Well, I already have to be there" ― he grimaced ― "apparently. But I'll help you snoop around on one condition."

She arched a brow. "Oh?" A lazy smirk spread across her lips and she wiggled her hips. "Making demands now, are we Rogers?" Steve gave a sharp hiss. Her smirk widened.

Steve grabbed her elbows, holding her gaze with his. "I help you get your evidence and in exchange you go on a date with me."

Natasha stilled, her mouth making a surprised O. "What sort of date?" she asked, narrowing her eyes with guarded suspicion. What if he wanted a fancy dinner date, where she had to wear a cocktail dress and get dolled up and eat a unappetizing four course meal. Or maybe he was the diner type ― not that she minded diners, but she always found herself at a lost after she ate. What was the next part of the date?

Steve shrugged. "I heard there was this place called Ninja New York. It was a themed restaurant. Never had Japanese food so… thought we could try it" ― he blushed a little ― "that is if you want to go."

It didn't sound awful. "Dressy casual and you have a deal." He chuckled and sealed it with a kiss. "Now, I better go before Pepper sends Carol back up looking for me." She nuzzled his neck, drinking in that musky scent of his and ground her hips against him until the desired whimper escaped his throat. She kissed his Adam's apple. "I'll continue our little game later." She wiggled her hips once more before sliding off his lap and sashaying out of the room.

* * *

In another life, when she hung on arms of high-ranking members of the mobs and governments and guerrilla military forces ― she would buy the majority of her clothing from luxury boutiques like the one she was in now. Natasha could tell that the twig thin assistant looked down her nose at Carol and Maria ― both women had the hard edge of down to earth women used to playing in the mud with the boys and had no sense for the finer and more feminine things in life ― like seduction and charm. Pepper, on the other hand, was treated like any other customer: she was the desired clientele the shop hoped to attract after all ― a hard working businesswoman with a filthy rich boyfriend who was eager for her to max out all his sleek black credit cards on frivolous things like the latest designer fashion.

Natasha was also pleased to note that the girl had enough common sense to extend that same courtesy to her as well ― her poisonously sweet smile may have helped ― when the girl offered the four of them refreshments. Natasha knew that she was the type of woman the shopped thrived on. The dangerous woman with a bottomless bank account. She always found it funny ― it was a private bit of gallows humor ― how she started her life as nothing more than an unwanted orphan and now she was at the tippy-top of the social ladder, shopping at stores her childhood self never dreamed of existing. Amazing how the grease of espionage and money turned the wheels of society: everyone could be bought, all one had to do was figure out the right price. "Is there something in particular you're looking for Ms. Potts?" the girl asked as she set the decanter of water on the elegantly wrought iron end table near their little couch.

Pepper tapped her lip. "Bring out your evening dresses," she said. "We're not really doing a theme or anything. And price isn't an issue." The girl's lips twitched into a smile ― it was something she liked to hear. Natasha settled into the couch. Plush and soft, it swallowed her up like a cloud. When she took a sip of her water, she could taste the mineral aftertaste that the sweetness tried to hide. The music was the latest upbeat tune by someone hit wonder artist that will be forgotten by next month. This was materialism manifested into the physical world: the smörgåsbord of sinful luxury and greed, where money was treated like water and people mere commodities. This was her world and she thrived in it: Natasha also hated it.

"Is it just me or are we getting weird looks?" Carol whispered. Natasha glanced around at the other little couches where other highborn women sat, tittering dimwittedly at the latest gossip. The women of CEOs and politicians, sports and movie stars; none of them had two brain cells to rub together and the ones that did ― well, Natasha picked those women out easily. The clerks had a certain air of apprehension around women with money and intelligence.

"Don't let them notice," she said, squeezing Carol's thigh. "They're like a pack of ravenous wolves. Striking at the first hint of weakness. Act like you belong here, Carol." Her friend nodded, sipping at her water as the twig thin assistant came back, dragging two rolling racks of dresses. The high-end luxury fabrics ― silks and satins ― caught the pale light of the shop, shimmering majestically and the sequins on some glittered like stars. The assistant measured them, stiffly recommended styles and sizes to Carol and Maria, and then gestured to the little changing booth facing them.

"Guess I'll be the first victim," Maria said, standing up and taking a dress the assistant handed. Natasha gave the woman a quick smile and watched her disappear. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out she saw it was a text from Steve.

 _Haven't been poked and prodded this much since I got the serum,_ he said. Natasha smiled, crossing her ankles. The message app chimed, revealing Steve standing on a pedestal, a middle-aged gentleman in a fine suit with a long measuring cord over his shoulders kneeling at his feet. Tony was in the background, snapping the picture.

 _You look like a pin cushion._ She typed back, biting her lip at the corner as she imagined what he'd look like in that tux (and how enjoyable it would be to strip him of it). The door to the changing room opened and Maria stepped out. Natasha glanced up, smiling at the sleek black gown with a slit that came up to her thigh; backless and strapless, Maria looked stunning. "I like it," she said.

"It's not a little much?" Maria asked, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. "Sam's gonna be there right?" she asked, and Natasha noticed the light dusting of pink on her cheeks. "I'm not an Avenger or anything."

"No," Pepper agreed, "but you're their public liaison, hence you have to be there." Maria puffed her cheeks out in a sigh. "Believe me, I understand. I had to be at so many parties for Tony because he was indisposed for one reason or another." Pepper rolled her eyes as she leaned back and took a long swallow of her water.

"Maybe I should try another one," Maria muttered and selected another dress from the rack. And so, it continued. It took Maria thirty minutes to settle on a dress (it was the first one she tried on) and then it was Carol's turn. Carol gave everyone a sour look and selected four dresses to take with her. The first two were by the same designer and didn't flatter Carol's busty figure at all. Tight in all the wrong places with cuts and slits revealing too much to be anywhere enticing; it was unanimous in their dislike for it. The third dress was a golden color with thin straps on the shoulders.

"I feel like a walking golden statue," Carol said, as she turned around for them to look at. "Is my butt hanging out?" she glanced over her shoulder to look at her rear. It was cut dangerously close to her rump. "It feels like my butt is hanging out."

"Try the other one on," Natasha suggested, and bit her cheek to keep the giggle at bay when Steve sent her a picture of him making a funny face. She hoped nobody would question her as to why she was spending most of her time on her phone. Carol disappeared into the changing room, a few seconds later the golden dress was tossed over the door ― the assistant gave a strangled shriek like a dying cat ― and after a minute or two Carol stepped out. This time she wore a silk dress of a deep purple, backless with a collar and a heart shape cut over her breasts, sleeveless and flared skirt. "Nice," she said, "Thor won't be able to keep his eyes off you."

Carol flushed. "Shut up, Romanoff," she muttered, twirling a little and the skirt billowed. "Thor and I are just... Bowling buddies." Maria and Pepper chuckled as they ate tiny finger sandwiches. "You know you're next right?"

"I thought Pepper was after you?" Natasha's eyes grew wide. She didn't want to go next. She didn't really want to try on dresses. It was frivolous, something that she did for a cover on a mission. Where the man she was going to be spending the evening with was a faceless mark or just a stepping stone to her goal.

"I already have something that Tony got me," Pepper said. "So, looks like you're up next." Natasha scowled, as Carol went back and changed into her t-shirt and jeans. The purple dress joined Maria's on the rack for purchases. Natasha sighed as she got up and went to the rack. Ignoring the eyes on her, she perused the items, dismissing them on personal criteria. This wasn't her first time shopping for an evening gown. Some had too many ribbons and frills, lace always made her skin itch, the satin felt too rough and the silk not smooth enough. No sequins and certain cuts just felt more revealing that she liked. One eventually caught her eye, a sleek indigo colored dress. After checking the size, Natasha plucked it off the rack and nodded to the assistant, who followed her into the dressing room. There she stripped down to her panties and slipped into the dress ― a beautiful mixture of cashmere and silk. If the girl noticed the scars on her back, she didn't say anything, and Natasha wondered if she could get away with wearing her hair down in an effort to hide the crisscrossing cicatrices.

"Oh." It was a small sound of surprise as she noticed the feathery lace that extended from the shoulder ends of the back of the dress all the way down to her feet to create a fairy-esque train, a few small sequins dotted the lace to give it a sparkle befitting a princess. She wondered what Steve would think when he sees her in this dress. For a moment, she basked in her own beauty, turning around so she could see every angle of the dress and how perfectly it fit her before stepping out to show the others. She was met with silence, her friends staring at her as well as the other patrons in the boutique. It was unnerving having so many eyes on her, but Natasha bore it with poise and grace thanks to her years of training.

"You look beautiful," Carol said. Maria and Pepper nodded in agreement. "You're gonna knock Steve's socks off."

She smiled. "I doubt that," she said. Though she did wonder how Steve would react to her upon seeing her in this dress. It was a lovely fabric and she couldn't help but run her hand down her leg again just to feel the silky softness of it. "Steve's not really that type of guy," she added. The three other women exchanged glances with each other. "He's not." Even the defense sounded weak to her as she recalled how Steve looked at her that night before, mapping out her body with tender kisses. Adoration. A man at the feet of a goddess, worshipping her sweetly.

"Well," Pepper said, slapping her hands against her thighs as she stood up. "Natasha, why don't you get out of that dress and put it on the rack and I'll get these all bought."

"Thank God." Carol stood up, stretching. "I could use a stiff drink. Nat?"

Natasha paused at the open changing room. "Sure, I'll come" — she smirked — "you're buying the first round though." Carol opened her mouth to protest, but she held up a finger. "Otherwise you take Maria and watch her cuss out the bartender in a hodgepodge of Italian and Spanish."

"Fine," Carol said, shooting a glare at Maria. The other woman chuckled. "Do you really cuss out the bartender?"

"Only when I'm really drunk," Maria said, trotting after Pepper. Natasha grinned and slipped into the changing room to get back into her regular clothes. She paused for a moment, admiring herself in the mirror. She remembered something her grandmother told her a long time ago — she was a descendent of emperors, last of the Imperial Russian bloodline. It was nonsense of course. The main branch of the Romanov family was butchered by the Bolsheviks during the Revolution of 1918. It was just something her grandfather claimed to make himself sound more important — he apparently died mad in one of Stalin's gulags. Still, wearing this dress, she could almost see herself walking down the glittering halls of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The herald announcing her as Natalia Alianovna Romanova, Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia. The idea caused her to chuckle as she held up her phone and snapped a picture.

* * *

Even around three o'clock, New York didn't seem to want to settle down. The wind started to gain a biting artic edge as it whistled through the towering skyscrapers and pungent alleyways. The sky was a dark brooding grey, evening settling in and people hurrying home or back to the office to finish the last of the day's work. Cars packed bumper to bumper filled the road with horns honking and drivers shouting at each other. "This would be so much easier if I could just fly us to this bar," Carol said, as they walked down the street. She had her leather flight jacket zipped up to her chin, the patches from her exploits in the Air Force bright and shiny in the pale afternoon light, a few strands of her golden hair whipping around her face with each gust of wind.

"Walking is good for you," Natasha said, as she side stepped a pack of teenagers oblivious to others since their noses were buried deep into their phones. The lights from the stores gleamed like hypnotic otherworldly beacons, illuminating the goods for sale in the windows. Mannequins dressed in the latest fashions, jewels and items of precious metals scintillating in the light as they sat on plush beds of velvet. She remembered lurking around the rich district of Volgograd as a child, pickpocketing socialites and unsuspecting tourists. She was one of the good ones, never getting caught — must've been why the Red Room found her; she picked the wrong pocket. A glitter of gold caught her eye, she stopped, staring at the elegant watch in the window.

"So is flying," Carol said, only to frown. "Nat, c'mon, we did enough shopping."

"I'll only be a minute," she said, doubling back to the doors of the shop. Inside was warm, both in temperature and atmosphere. Fine wood furniture dotted the corners and accompanied by plush sedans and luxurious rugs. Overhead, soothing golden lights shown down and allowed the glass and wares to sparkle. Smooth jazz drifted from the hidden speakers and if she stopped to listen, she could hear the tick-tock of countless watches.

"Nat, we already did our shopping for the day." Carol came in behind her, a low whistle escaping her as she looked around. A man in a dark grey suit and burgundy tie came up to them.

"May I help you ladies with something?" he asked, eyes narrowed as he took in their all-too casual street clothes. He gave a sniff of disdain. "If you are looking for something a little less... luxurious, may I suggest the Timex store at the mall?"

Natasha smiled, batting her eyes as leaned in and touched the man lightly on his wrist. "Pardon me, but I was looking for a watch for my boyfriend," she said, her tone dripping with honey. "And since we are both rather well know, I prefer to be" — she pouted, jutting her lower lip out just enough to border exaggeration — "inconspicuous."

"Oh!" The man's entire demeanor changed. "Of course, Miss —"

"Shostakova, Yelena Shostakova," she said, "I'm a prima ballerina for the Bolshoi, but I'm here with my boyfriend, he's a visiting diplomat, very high ranking within the government." She waved her hand at Carol. "Don't mind Olga, she doesn't have my refine tastes." Natasha smirked at Carol and gave her a wink.

"Pizda," Carol said, brushing past her and walking over to one of the lounge corners. She flopped into a seat and picked up a magazine. Natasha chuckled.

"Is there anything I can do for you Miss Shostakova?" the man asked, wringing his hands in an anxious manner. "I'm sure price isn't an issue for you, no?"

"Money is like cheap wine," she said, rolling her eyes with the haughty air of a Russian socialite. "Useful for getting drunk, but little else." She waved her hand dismissively, walking over to the glass display cases. The watches gleamed beneath the light, their faces bright and the man began to explain in general terms about each section of watch. Natasha hummed and nodded, sometimes clicking her tongue. It was clear the man was desperate to please her, offering to take out any watch that her eye lingered on a second too long. A watch did catch her eye. A white face with golden numbers; the hands were golden with in laid mother of pearl. The band was full-grain calf leather, tanned to a dark sheen. "This one," she said, pointing to the watch.

"Excellent choice. It's a sturdy watch, good for every day wear or a formal outing," the man said as he unlocked the back of the case and opened the door to pick up the watch. "Self-winding..." Natasha tuned him out as he rattled off the specs of the watch; she could easily see it on Steve's wrist. A belated birthday gift. She pulled out the black credit card with the Stark Industries label on it. The man didn't question why a Russian socialite would have a Stark Industries credit card. Instead, he nodded and told her he'll get that boxed up.

"Gift wrapped?" she asked, tapping her jaw. The man nodded, calling for a twig thin girl to come over and wrap the box the watch was in. Natasha glanced at Carol and jerked her head. Carol sighed, getting up and walking over to her in a hunched over fashion, hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. "Did you really have to call me that?"

"Yes," Carol said, though her lips twitched up into a smile as she nudged her shoulder. "Payback." The man came back over with the wrapped box, the credit card and the receipt. "Whatcha get?"

"A trinket," she said, signing her name in a loopy illegible manner. She beamed at the man as she took her credit card and the box, placing both back into her purse and leaving before the man could ask any further questions. A thrill tingled down her spine as she walked into the cold evening air.

"For who?" Carol asked, following her as they continue down the block towards the bar that was the ultimate destination. Natasha smiled, hand slipping into her purse to feel the silky ribbon the girl had tied around the box.

"Steve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> I seem to be having technical difficulties with my keyboard, so I don't know when the next chapter will be up. Hopefully, I'll keep my monthly update schedule despite the keyboard issues. Cheers.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review


	10. Silk and Diamonds

For the rest of week, the giftwrapped watch burned a metaphysical hole in Natasha's sock drawer. Every time she saw Steve she wondered if now would be the right time to give it to him. Something stayed her hand. It was unusual for them to have any sort of down time, but she figured the bad guys decided to play it safe and retreat deep underground after what she and Steve did to Hydra. That meant, she and Steve spent the rest of the week together. He took her to Brooklyn for a day, showing her the sights, becoming nostalgic at how much had changed in the seventy years he had been frozen. It warmed her heart whenever they stumbled upon something that he remembered from his youth, a mom'n'pop shop still run by the same family (grandpa of course remembered skinny Steve Rogers), the pizzeria he and Bucky used to spend what little pocket change they had at, that back alley where he got beat up. It hurt when he tried to take her to the little cemetery where his parents were buried, only to see that it had been filled in and a fancy new apartment complex had been built over it. "I'm sure the city moved the graves," she remember saying.

"Yeah." The glum disappointment on his face hadn't encouraged her. That night, after they had sex, she had burned the midnight oil looking to see what had become of the little cemetery and the bodies that had been buried there. And while she whittled away the hours, her thoughts would drift to the watch she had in her sock drawer and the man whose arm was slunk across her waist. A feeling of contentment had settled over her, and it soon became a routine for her: staying awake for a few hours after Steve had drifted off, just to watch him sleep and run her fingers through his hair. Sometimes she would even sing a lullaby she remembered from the time before the Red Room.

And then Friday evening descended upon them, shattering her little idyllic illusion. Several things she had put aside came flooding into the forefront of her mind: Bucky, Matt's evidence, the watch, her complicated feelings for Steve, this entire relationship — he was one of her _best friends_ and they were sleeping together and she _loved him_ — the final thought alone caused her stomach to churn with a maelstrom of emotions she rather not think about, it was weird enough that she was fucking her best friend she didn't need to add _love_ to the mix. Natasha took a deep breath; she was cutting it close here as JARVIS had informed her that her dress had been delivered to her suite and that the make-up artist was waiting for her. There was no going back now. Boldly, she knocked on the door and waited until it hissed opened. "Nat?" Steve was in the doorway, the white dress shirt straining against his muscles, the black cummerbund accenting his waistline. She licked her lips. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be getting reading?" he asked as he struggled to get tie his bowtie.

"Yes," she said, taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I wanted to give you something first" — she held up the gift-wrapped box — "consider it a belated birthday present. Since we didn't get to celebrate it this year... better late than never."

"Oh." His eyes widen and he gave up on trying to tie his bowtie and took the box. A boyish smile spread across his face as he delicately plucked at the wrapping paper, working each taped corner free. It was amusing seeing this, his waste-not-want-not habits dying hard agonizing deaths in the 21st Century. He gave a low whistle at the insignia on the box and then opened the lid. "Nat" — he looked at her flabbergasted — "I can't accept this," he said. Smiling, she closed the distance between them and undid the mess that was his bowtie. The fresh clean scent of lime and white pepper filled her nose, warming her from head to toe.

"Sure, you can," she said, as she looped the black silk cloth around his neck. "It's a birthday present. It's rude to refuse." Deftly her fingers manipulated the cloth, tugging it this way and that, making sure it was centered and the ends flaring out just so. "You don't want to refuse the first birthday gift your girlfriend gets you" — her lips twisted into a frown — "even if its four months belated." She folded the stiff white collar of his shirt down. "There." She patted his chest. "Now don't you look handsome."

"Natasha," he said, voice soft as snowfall. With a skilled flick of her ankles, she stood in _en pointe_ and pecked his lips. "What am I gonna do with you, doll?"

"Wear the watch I got you," she said, looping her arms around his neck and forcing him to support most of her weight. "It's the least you could do after I tied your bowtie." He shook his head as she unwound her arms and settled back down. Smiling, Steve took the watch out of the box and paused for a moment or two to admire the craftsmanship, before he put it on his left wrist and set the time. "It's self-winding, so twirl your arm a few times to get it going." He nodded and did so, smiling when he could hear the ticking.

"It's beautiful," he said. "Mam said Da had a fancy pocket watch." He frowned. "Also said he sold it to buy their tickets to America."

"I'm sorry, Steve," she whispered, taking his hand in hers and giving his fingers a squeeze. "If it makes you feel better, I know where the city moved their graves." He looked at her; she nodded. "We can go tomorrow after we visit Matt."

"Okay." He gave her a little smile and ran his thumb along the back of her knuckles. "I'd like that." There was a pause, a pregnant awkwardness settling between them like a wet blanket. "Nat, you said — you called yourself my girlfriend and, I—"

"Sorry to interrupt Captain, but Agent Romanoff, Alessandra wishes to inform you that you are needed in your suite to get ready for the gala." JARVIS said. Natasha took a step back, pulling her hand free from Steve's.

"Thank you, JARVIS," she said, "we'll talk more about this later, Steve." She wiggled her fingers in a wave and left him standing in his doorway glad he didn't say anything else. The elevator door hissed open and she stepped in with a sigh.

"Did I interrupt something Agent Romanoff?" the AI asked as the elevator descended to her suite. The lights of New York twinkled in the darkness, yellows and oranges, bright blue-white, red and green from traffic lights, and a rainbow of neon from billboards and signs. A scintillating riot of color that people all over the world romanticized: dreams were made and broken in this city. It was one of those cities named along with the greats of Europe: London, Paris, New York. An epicenter of culture. "Natasha?"

"No, JARVIS," she said as the doors hissed opened. "You didn't." She stepped onto her floor and headed to her room. Alessandra was waiting for her with two assistants, her rolling case of cosmetic tools and the garment bag containing her dress. "Alessa!" Natasha hugged her friend, kissing each cheek. "Good to see you, thank you for coming on such short notice."

"When the private chauffer from Stark Industries appeared at my shop in Milan" — Alessandra smiled — "I knew. Now, quickly. Shower, so I can make you look stunning." Natasha smiled and trotted off to the bathroom to do as she was instructed.

Two hours later, she was dressed. A mink coat that fell to her calves hugged her form, covering her bare shoulders, her auburn tresses done up in a tight bun and a few curls framing her face. Tear drop diamonds hung from her ears; small rings of diamonds circled her neck with a single large one at the center that hung just below the soft divot in the middle of her collarbone. A diamond bracelet dangled from her left wrist. The perfume she wore was cinnamon and vanilla with a subtle mix of chocolate and honey: spicy yet sweet with just the right amount of sexy. Most of the Avengers had gathered in the common area, waiting to on the limos that'll take them to the gala. The men all wore sleek black tuxedoes and Natasha was surprised how well Bruce and Clint cleaned up. Thor looked regal with his beard trimmed close to his face and his bangs had been plated twice and tucked behind his ears, the rest of his shoulder length hair left loose. Steve was nowhere to be seen. "Well," Carol said, walking up to her. "Don't you look all fancy."

"You look lovely," she said, admiring Carol; her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun. The deep purple dress shimmered in the light, deep sapphires hung from Carol's ears and twin bracelets of gold and rubies adorn her wrists. Around her throat was a necklace of the finest crystal. Small tear drops began at both ends of the clasp, growing larger until they reached the center were a large crystal cut into the shape of a starburst hung, with delicate golden wire circling the base of each of the eight points. Natasha noticed that she could see the twisting plasma flares that coil about an actual star.

"Thanks." Natasha pointed to the necklace. "It's beautiful Carol." Her friend blushed. "Where did you get such a jewel?"

"Thor gave it to me," she said, touching the pendent. "A star for the star of his heart, he said" — a faint glow enveloped Carol; Natasha recognized that look for she had been seeing it on herself lately whenever she glanced at the mirror — "said it was made by the Ljósálfar — Light elves — of Alfheim, in the heart of a dying star. They have a unique magic and were able to capture the essence and light of the star within the crystal." She beamed and her fain binary corona grew brighter. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"That's amazing," she said.

"Why aren't you with Steve?" Carol asked, getting her corona under control. Natasha glanced around again; she still couldn't see Steve. "You two have been inseparable the last few days."

"I told him something," she said, grabbing Carol's wrist and dragging her over to a quiet corner of the common room. Carol's eyes widen. "I said I was his girlfriend... to his face."

"Yeah, and?" Carol gave her a puzzled look. Natasha scowled; Carol arched a brow. "Aren't you? You two are sleeping together."

"You're sleeping with Thor, are you his girlfriend?"

"Don't go changing the subject Romanoff and making this about me and Thor," Carol said. "I'm talking about _your_ thing with Steve, not my relationship with Thor." Carol huffed. "We're not sleeping together by the way."

"He gave you a fancy elven crafted necklace," Natasha hissed, "I say that constitutes you being his girlfriend." Carol scowled. "Steve is one of my best friends... I can't —"

"Why not? What's so wrong about being his girlfriend?" Carol pressed and took a step closer to her. "You've been on cloud nine the last few days, don't tuck tail and run now. It's just a word."

"It's more than just a word, Carol!" She clenched and unclenched her hands. "It means so much more than that. It's a commitment."

"And that scares you?"

Natasha opened her mouth to rebuke the statement when Steve appeared, yet before he spotted her Pepper clapped her hands. "Okay, everyone. Steve's here. The limos are here, it's go time. Carol and Thor, you're in the first limo with Bruce and Betty. Clint, you're in the second limo with me, Tony—"

"Aw, man." Clint whined, but Pepper continued on regardless.

"— and Maria. Steve and Natasha, you two are by yourselves in the third limo. Let's go people," Pepper said. The pleasant chattered stopped, Carol smirked at her and went over to Thor and accepted his arm. She laughed at something he said, her binary glow appearing again just beneath her skin. Natasha felt warmth swell in her breast, she was happy for her friend. Happy that Thor brought this side of Carol out and that Carol found someone that could match her.

"May I?" Steve said, offering Natasha his arm. She smiled at him, slipping her arm through his. "You know I haven't seen you in your dress yet, but you do look lovely."

"Thanks," she said as they waited for the elevator. "You clean up nicely."

"Thanks." He flashed her a brilliant smile as the elevator returned, the doors sighing open and they stepped inside. They descended to garage level in silence, following the others through the echoey concrete space to the three limos waiting them. Steve lead her to the rear limo, the chauffer opening the door for them and they slipped into the plush black leather seats. The door closed with a soft thump and the lights of the garage muted due to the darkly tinted windows. She sat diagonally across from Steve. He drummed his fingers across his knee, the watch peeking out from the cuff of his tuxedo. "Is there gonna be dancin'?" he asked.

"Most likely," she said, watching as the sleek cars fell away and the light brightened. More cars appeared as they entered the street. "Why? Can't dance?" Steve flushed. "Really?"

He sighed, tugging at his bowtie. "Never got the chance with Peggy and before that, well — most dames didn't wanna dance with a guy they might step on." He shrugged. "Just didn't really seem that important. Bigger things to worry about."

"I'll show you," she said, shifting to sit across from him. She took his hand. "It's not that hard. Plus, I'm a pretty good dancer myself." She smiled and when the limo glided to a stop, she hopped up and moved to sit next to him. Steve seemed to relax at that, pulling her close to his side and his hand snaked down her arm to lace his fingers with hers. They road in silence, traffic jamming them up as they near the location of the gala. Every socialite and fancy-to-do person in New York seemed to be invited to Senator what's-his-face's gala. The air in the limo seemed to become stiflingly.

"So... girlfriend, huh?" Steve said, glancing down at her. She looked up at him, noting the specks of green in his eyes. She smiled, pushing her tongue against the back of her lip in order to not ruin her lipstick.

"You told Matt you were my boyfriend."

"Yeah, so?"

"You aren't complaining about me calling myself your girlfriend now are you Rogers?" she arched a finely manicured brow. He huffed out a chuckle.

"No, it's just... I don't wanna spook you." He squeezed her fingers. "Like I told you, I don't want to label this. I'm happy the way things are between us right now. No need to name this thing between us. I just want us to be happy." The limo pulled up into the circular drive way; she could see the marble fountain out her window, the lights glittering along the arching streams of water. Cameras started flashing as their limo slowed to the stop, the dull murmur of the crowd could be heard outside. The limo stopped.

"I am happy, Steve," she said, admitting that much tasted sweet on her tongue. "Are you ready though?" she asked, feeling her pulse quicken as she saw the chauffer approach Steve's door. "To let the world see us — _together_?"

A shit-eater smirk spread across his lips and he kissed the back of her knuckles. "Let's go tell the world Captain America is officially no longer the world's most eligible bachelor." The door opened letting in the dazzling flashing lights and the roar of the crowd. Natasha smiled, unafraid.

* * *

The icy cold hit him full in the chest and the ten thousand shining lights made the night sky overhead appear blacker than pitch. The Plaza Hotel glittered like a jeweled behemoth constructed out of steel and concrete. Reporters and photographers lined the red carpet leading to the doors. For one heartbeat — maybe two — it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The reporters and photographers stared, jaws slack, at them. Steve glanced at Natasha. She held her head high with a slight impish curve to her lips, her arm linked with his. For a moment he was convinced he had an imperial Russian princess on his arm. Then the spell broke, the reporters roared into life, catapulting questions and shoving microphones and cell phones into their faces all to the clicking sound of the photographers snapping pictures.

"Captain Rogers what's the future for Avengers now that Shield has been dismantled?" one reporter asked, shoving her microphone into his face. He glanced at Natasha, who gave him a minute shake of his head. "Captain Rogers, are you hear to endorse the Senator's reelection campaign? Has any presidential hopeful reached out to you for an endorsement?" They kept walking, ignoring the reporters. Still the questions kept coming. "Are you two dating?" another reporter asked, the lights glaring off his bald spot. "Ms. Romanoff, is it true that you were a soviet spy?" another asked, straining against the felt rope keeping them from mobbing them. Natasha gave the woman a tight predatory smile and he was pleased to see her shrink back into the crowd. "Captain, have you been accused of treasons for your involvement with Shield's downfall?" another asked. Steve blinked as a camera flashed right in front of his face. Natasha cleared her throat and they kept walking. "Ms. Romanoff, did you and Tony Stark date while you were working for Stark Industries?" another reporter asked as she pushed her way to the front. They were halfway to the doors, the big burly looking guards with their dark glasses stood at ease, waiting for them to approach. "Captain, now that you've relocated back to New York, are you planning to move back home to Brooklyn?" a wide-eyed young man asked.

"I'm thinking about it," he said, smiling a little. The crowd of reporters paused, to jot down the little tidbit of information before they bombarded them again with more questions. Many of them about where in Brooklyn he planned on moving to, would the apartment be funded by Tony Stark or was he thinking of getting a house or would he have a place in Brooklyn yet still remain in Avengers Tower to oversee the Avengers.

"Ms. Romanoff, are you co-leader of the Avengers or does that responsibility fall to Colonel Danvers?" a reporter asked, shoving his smart phone into Natasha's face. Natasha merely smiled, ignoring the question. "Captain, do you find that Colonel Danvers has difficulty accepting your authority as leader of the Avengers?" Another reporter asked. "What about Tony Stark? Do you have trouble controlling him, he has a history of bucking authority?" A third asked. Steve frowned, wishing they'd stop with the questions about the team. Carol never rebuked taking his orders and neither had Tony. They both had offered suggestions when they thought he was going to make a bad call, but ultimately, they did trust his tactical judgement. "Ms. Romanoff, is it true that you were involved with Matt Murdock?" a reporter asked. Natasha narrowed her eyes, but that was the only hint of her displeasure at the question. "Ms. Romanoff, is it true Matt Murdock cheated on you, multiple times with multiple women while you were stationed down in DC?" a reporter asked. "Ms. Romanoff, is your romance with Captain Rogers a way to get back at Matt Murdock?" another reporter asked. "Are you still seeing Matt Murdock after what he did to you?" a third asked.

Steve swallowed, blood boiling at the implications the reporters slung at Natasha. Yet, she bore it all with graceful poise, never once showing if the accusations bothered her. They reached the doors, the guards opened them and in they went. Once the doors closed, the roar of the press became muffled, like cutting off the roar of a waterfall. "Nat, about what they said—" he began as a butler came to take Natasha's coat and clutch. Whatever else he was going to say got lost in his throat. The dress she wore took his breath away. The midnight blue accented her hair and brought out the rich green of her eyes. He wished he had his sketchbook so he could draw her. Natasha smirked.

"Don't worry." She slipped her arm through his again. "I had Alessandra take a picture for you," she said as they headed towards the ballroom. He couldn't help but smile, feeling lighter than he ever had before. "Next time though, don't answer any of their questions."

"Well, I am," he said; she frowned. "About moving back to Brooklyn," he clarified.

"Oh." There was something morose in her town, and he wished they could slip away for a moment so he could explain that he wants her with him, that moving back to Brooklyn was to get away from everything (and everyone) at the tower, so it can just be them. A normal couple in love, figuring out how to live together and where their relationship was going. But he didn't get that chance as they entered the ballroom. It was filled with all the high-tone and fancy-to-do people of New York; busboys in tuxedoes walked around with silver trays balanced perfectly on their fingers with either a variety of hors d'oeuvres or a cluster of champagne flutes, their golden liquid bubbling as they walked by. Natasha let go of his arm and plucked two from a passing busboy and handed one to him.

"Thanks." He took a sip, scanning the crowd for anyone familiar. "So, what's the plan?" he asked, following her lead. Natasha was better in these sorts of situations. He didn't know how many times he got invited to some fancy Congressional or Presidential party while in DC that he turned down because of pressing world security matters — even though most of the time none existed, he just didn't want to go.

"We wait until later, let everyone get good and drunk, then we'll need a distraction," she said, sipping her own champagne. "Just follow my lead." She smiled when they found the other Avengers. Tony was pouting like a four-year-old denied another cookie and Pepper looked tired even though the night had barely begun.

"Thank goodness you didn't punch anyone, Steve," Pepper said as they joined the other Avengers. "I was worried we were going to have a PR disaster on our hands." She rubbed her temples.

"How come you didn't tell me you were dating, Red? And how are you not dead yet?" Tony asked. Natasha chuckled.

"Unlike you Tony," he said, "Nat actually likes me and enjoys my company."

"Believe me, Pepper," she said, "he wanted to. The whole _defending my honor_ and that stuff. He tensed as soon as those reporters brought up Matt."

"Always told you he was no good for you," Carol said, "now you believe me." She raised her glass at Steve. "Got a better man." Natasha flushed at that; he did too.

"Carol," Natasha said, "Matt has his redeeming qualities. He's a good man at heart, he's just not a _kind_ man."

"Good man or not," Steve said, "he still shouldn't have slept around like that behind your back, _especially when_ you were down in DC."

Natasha made a face. "It doesn't matter now, I'm with you," she said and smile. The look she gave him, one of love and adoration, made his heart flutter and he swallowed a gulp of champagne. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making him warm or the fact that he had the best damn dame on his arm for the night and the world now knew it.

"How long Cap?" Tony asked, gesturing between them. Steve and Natasha exchanged a look. "How long have you two been... y'know..." he trailed off.

"Having sex?" Natasha supplied. Tony's cheeks turned pink. "That's classified above Iron Man's clearance, sorry." She smiled, and Carol made a teasing sound of surprise just to rub Tony's face in it a little bit more. The billionaire inventor scowled.

"But not above Captain Marvel's clearance," Carol said, a wicked good smirk on her face as she winked at them. "Right, Romanoff?"

"It was," she said, "before you decided clearances don't apply to Captain Marvel — especially when it comes to getting the information she wants."

Carol's grin widened. "Damn straight." She tossed back her champagne. "Maria always said that was one of the worst things about me. I could never just let things go." She shrugged. "Fury said it was a good quality to have in a spy."

"You're more of a soldier anyway," Steve said, "good at following orders."

"Nah" — Carol shook her head — "better at giving them than following them." Everyone laughed at that. A busboy walked pass and Steve plucked some tiny bacon wrapped items from the tray and popped them into his mouth. They were barely a snack, but he had wolfed down a few protein bars prior. Hopefully, this mission didn't take too long and a few places would still be open.

"Avengers," a slimy masculine voice said. Steve looked up as a round as a beach ball approached. The man's head was equally round though his thick floppy jowls gave his face a melting appearance — not dissimilar to how the Nazis looked at the climax of _Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark_ _—_ and he had beady dark rat like eyes and a mouth better fitting for a blobfish. The man offered his small pudgy hand, fingers thick as sausages with a faint purple tinge to the nails. "So glad you could make it." He grinned, the skin on his face sagging and the light glancing off his shining bald head.

"Pleasure is all ours, Senator," Tony said, grasping the man's hand. "Lovely venue, Plaza's an excellent choice." Tony dropped his hand, putting it on Pepper's back as he introduced her. The Senator smiled, ghosting his lips over Pepper's hand, before shaking hands with the rest of the Avengers. The Senator gave a small gasp of surprise when he shook Carol's hand.

The Senator flexed his fingers and Steve noted the faint glow of Carol's hand. "Quite a grip you have there, Ms. Danvers —"

"Colonel," Carol said, eyes narrowed with disgust as she shipped her champagne, "I earned my rank."

"Colonel," the Senator said with a nod. "What branch?"

"Air Force." Carol gave him a tight smile. The Senator nodded and gave her one more look-over that made Steve's skin crawl before chatting with Clint, Thor, and Bruce for a few minutes. Lastly, the Senator faced him.

"The great Captain America," he said, grinning like a plump rat. "I'm deeply honored that you could make it. My voters will definitely look favorably upon your attendance." He offered his hand and Steve shook it, mindful of his strength.

"Pleasure's all mine Senator," he said, thanking all that time running around the country on the bond tours for Senator Brant. It gave him the ability to lie through his teeth when meeting people he found personally disgusting. The Senator reminded him of an overfed slug; he was more than happy to let go of the man's hand and it took considerable effort to not wipe his palm against his pant leg in an effort to get whatever imagined ick off his skin.

"The lovely Natasha Romanoff," the Senator said, taking Natasha's hand and ghosting his lips over her knuckles. Natasha bore the encounter with unmatched grace, smiling broadly and batting her eyes. "You are even more beautiful in person," he said. "The way you handled yourself on Capitol Hill — have you ever thought about a career in politics?"

Natasha withdrew her hand with a smile. "I'm not much of a politician, Senator," she said, "though your flattery is much appreciated." She touched his upper arm, giving it a gentle squeeze that made the man smile. "If I had to change careers I'll go into ballet."

"You would be stunning, stealing the spotlight for sure!" the Senator said. "Not even my Beulah could hold a candle to you!" He laughed, gesturing to a thin sour faced woman with poufy grey hair with wrinkles deep enough to rival the Grand Canyon, in a plain black evening dress and a thin chain around her neck supporting a solitary teardrop diamond. The only gaudy bit of jewelry was on her finger: a large gem encrusted wedding ring. "Captain Rogers is a lucky man indeed!"

"Yes, I am," Steve said, wrapping his arm around Natasha's waist and pulling her close. Natasha beamed up at him before taking a sip of her champagne. A plump man, cheeks red from trotting around, came over to them and whispered something into the Senator's ear. Apologizing, the Senator left and the music began to swell. Someone announced that dancing will now begin. Steve grabbed some more hors d'oeuvres and gulped down the rest of his champagne. He should have expected this. Should have come prepared for dancing at a gala this fancy. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach and his knees felt weak. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to scarf down those hors d'oeuvres.

"Something wrong soldier?" Natasha asked as she placed her empty champagne glass on a busboy's tray. Natasha rolled her shoulders, hands relaxed at her side. Steve swallowed down the lump in his throat and took her hand. "You seem nervous."

He led her to the dance floor. "I am." He took her hand in his and placed the other one on her hip while she placed hers on his shoulder. As soon as the music began, he glanced down to watch his feet, trying to find the rhythm and to make sure he didn't step on Natasha's toes. Steve lead Natasha around a small square of the dance floor in an awkward shuffling step, mindful of his feet and everyone else. Glancing up, he grimaced at the confused look on Natasha's face. "Sorry," he mumbled, bowing his head again to make sure he didn't step on her feet. "Not very good at this." He stepped on her toe and she let out a sharp hiss. "Sorry, sorry!" It threw him off his game and the next few steps included more bruised toes for Natasha. "Damn it, Nat, I'm sorry."

"Steve, stop." Natasha stopped, forcing him to do so as well. "Relax, look at me and let me lead." He opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off. "You can't dance. That's fine, but dancing is easy and you're making it way more complicated than what it actually needs to be by overthinking."

"Sorry," he said, feeling his cheeks tint. "Just nervous, is all."

Natasha smiled. "I know, so that's why I want you to relax and only focus on me" — a bold look sparkled in her eyes — "you with me soldier?"

"Yeah." He nodded, trying to relax though he did let Natasha lead them around the dance floor. After a few moments, the tension left his back and shoulders and he let the violins and violas serenade him. The world fell away and all that mattered was Natasha: the light sparkling off the diamonds on her wrist and throat, the glitter of her dress and the vermillion sheen of her tresses and the warmth of her viridian eyes. Time didn't matter anymore and after a while he even stopped paying attention to the music. The song he heard was the beat of Natasha's heart and the soft tune she hummed as they twirled around the dance floor. It felt surreal, dancing with the woman he loved. Ever since he woke up in this new time, he felt like a lost soldier searching for a home he forgot he had. Until he met Natasha. Spending time with her made him realize how lost he was, adrift in an uncanny alien world. She found him, ground him, made him remember he had a home — that he _came_ home. Later than the other soldiers, but he still came home. It hit him like a Hulk gut punch: Natasha is home.

"Don't look now," Natasha whispered and instantly he glanced around; she squeezed his hand sharply. "I said don't look." That teasing smirk of hers that he found he enjoyed seeing more and more.

"Sorry." A boyish half-smile on his lips; he pulled her a little closer to him, reveling at the feeling of how well they're bodies fit together.

"Everyone's watching — mostly our friends, but a few others too. We even have the spot light on us." He saw her cheeks tint pink and her eyes briefly flicked down before returning to hold his gaze.

"Shit." That same feeling he got before doing his first war bonds show — like he was going throw up — coiled in his stomach and he had to swallow several times.

"Stop," she said, "you're doing great, just focus on me. It'll be over soon." Her soft humming return and he fell deeper into her gaze. The ballroom melted away, the gala, New York — reality consisted of him and Natasha, nothing more and nothing less. It felt like this could go on forever, he didn't want it to end. A timeless synergy surged through them, and he understood the emotions in her eyes. The violins and violas warbled a final note and he leaned in and — to his surprise — she closed the small gap between their lips, sealing the kiss.

Applause echoed through the room and they broke apart too quickly for his liking. Blushing, he led Natasha back over to the Avengers. A man announced that the other ballroom is now open for dining. At the mention of food his stomach growled. "You okay?" Natasha asked. He nodded.

"Yeah, just hungry."

The guests murmured in delight, heading to the second ballroom like a massive human behemoth. "Two hundred dollars per plate? Outrageous!" Pepper hissed. "Can you believe that?"

"Relax Pep," Tony said, "we're the Senator's guests, we didn't have to pay for anything."

"Did you donate?" she asked.

"Nope." Tony shook his head. "Don't like the guy. Why give a do-nothing senator money for him to continue doing nothing? Doesn't make sense."

Steve glanced at Natasha, warmed by the large smile on her face. He leaned in close to her. "Sorry Nat" — he grimaced — "but I really don't know how to dance. I just sorta rhythmically stand," he said. Natasha tossed her head back laughing, grabbing onto his arm to support herself. The sound of her laugh reminded him heavy rain pitter-pattering on the roof and it had the same joy as idyllic starlets dancing in the rain in the old romance movies. Steve realized he would do anything to hear Natasha's laugh again. Carol stared at them with an emotion somewhere betwixt shocked delight and horror. Even Tony paled at the sound of Natasha's laugh. Clint was the only one not perturbed by Natasha's sudden laughter; in fact, the archer gave him a grin and an approving nod.

"It's okay," she said, between giggles, mirth tinting her cheeks pink, "you did fine. We can practice when we get back to the tower." She unabashedly pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I had fun nonetheless." Now it was his turn to blush and wonder why he wasn't uncomfortable with this public display of affection. Maybe because I'm happy? He thought.

They reached their table and he pulled out her chair for her. Thor did the same for Carol. "Nobody pulls my chair out for me," Clint grumbled, pulling his chair out and slouching into his seat, not caring if he rumbled his tuxedo. "Would be nice if someone did."

"Need to get yourself a girlfriend, Barton," Carol said, reaching for the glass of water already sitting on the table. "I hear Bobbi is single. She seems capable of handling you. Why don't you try dating her?"

"Cause she's my ex-wife," he said, picking up one of the tiny forks. Steve picked his up as well, marveling at how small it was in his hand. He glanced at Natasha, hoping she'll clue him in on what the various sized silverware was used for. Surely, she had encountered dwarf spoons and forks before when she was a KGB spy. When she didn't offer him any guidance he set the tiny fork down on the napkin. Clint slid a folded piece of paper over to Natasha. "As requested."

"Thanks Clint," Natasha said, and slipped the card sized paper into her cleavage.

Carol stared at Clint. "Okay Barton, fess up. When did you get married and when did you get divorce?" she asked. "And how come I didn't know about this?" She looked at Natasha. "Did you know?" Natasha just smiled. "Steve?"

"Hey" — he held up his hands — "first time I'm hearing about this," he said. Carol huffed.

"A few months after I joined Shield," Clint said, rubbing his brow, "Bobbi and I had a mission together in Las Vegas. Got done ahead of schedule and Coulson told us to enjoy the last few days. One thing led to another, was saying _I do_ in front of an Elvis impersonator and slipping a cheap ring onto Bobbi's finger" — Clint shrugged — "we lasted for six, maybe seven, months before we both realized that we were just not _right_ for each other. Went to the courthouse and got it annulled. We stayed good friends until she got transferred to the West Coast."

"And you just haven't found anyone to tie the knot with again?" Carol asked. Clint shifted, setting down the little fork he realized he was still holding. When it was clear he wasn't going to answer, Carol turned her attention to Natasha. Grinning, she grabbed Natasha's hand and seemed to vibrate with excitement, her binary corona glowing faintly beneath her skin. "And _you_ " _—_ it came out as a squeal _—_ "oh my gosh, Natasha! You were stunning out there! Glowing even! I've never seen you this happy before! Way to get him, tiger! I'm so happy for you!" Carol shook Natasha a little. "See, I told you everything would work out." Carol fixed him with a stare. "And if you break her heart," she warned, "I'll leave you on some planet in GN-z11."

Natasha smiled, ducking her head. "Yeah," she said and Steve thought her voice sounded a bit distant, as if she was thinking about something else. For a brief moment, he wondered if she was thinking about Matt. Doubt squirmed in his gut, mingling with slithering jealousy; he took a deep breath and squashed both ideas, reminding himself that Natasha was here, with him. "Yeah," she said again, though sounding much more upbeat. "I am." The smile she sent his way made his heart swell and he puffed his chest out a little with pride and grabbed her hand beneath the table. Busboys appeared pushing large silver trollies laden with food. The first course consisted of two types of soups: minestrone and French onion. Steve felt that his minestrone was heavy on the pepper and very watery, diluting the taste of the vegetables (he picked out the bits of carrot that he could find). Carol's French onion was cold as ice, grumbling about shitty service, she cupped the bowl and allowed her hands to glow until curls of steam wafted up from the soup.

"In Asgard," Thor said, "we do not start our meals with soup." He dropped his spoon on the small plate his bowl sat upon.

"We're on Midgard," Carol said. Thor grinned, picked up his bowl and took three large gulps of the minestrone soup, finishing it. Carol took his bowl before he could smash it on the ground, demanding another round. The busboy came back and collected their bowls, swapping them out for a salad. Steve made a face. He hated salads. He liked vegetables but salads felt like eating air. Sullenly, he pushed the lettuce around, picking out the bits of ham and chicken in an effort to get his stomach to stop growling. Damn his super soldier metabolism.

"Do you know what the entrée is?" he whispered to Natasha, surprised she had eaten most of her salad.

"Steak, with mashed potatoes and asparagus," she said, "or you could've gotten the salmon fillet with brussels sprouts and wild rice." She smiled. "I think Pepper put you down for the steak."

He grunted, shifting his chair. "I hope it's a big one," he said. "Cause after this I could eat a horse."

"I know." She patted his thigh as the busboy once again whisked their plates away and replaced them with their entrées. A medallion size steak wrapped in a sorry strip of bacon sat on his plate with a small blob of mash potatoes and three skinny asparagus. He swallowed, looking over at Nat's plate and seeing that her salmon fillet didn't look any better. "Well..." she said. "I guess we can get some pizza at Lombardi's after this."

"On Asgard," Thor said, picking up his tiny steak with two fingers, "we get a slab of meat for a steak. This is not even fit for any of the lowest warriors to feast upon." He tore it easily in half, ignoring the knife and fork. "And 'tis dry as dust! No juices running out! Is this Senator trying to displease his guests?" Thor stood up. "I demand to speak with the man that cooked this beef! He must answer to Thor, son of Odin and Prince of Asgard!"

"Thor sit down before I punch ya into the next galaxy!" Carol yanked on his hand until he dropped back into his seat. "Figured Jabba the Hutt was a fucking cheapskate," Carol said. "I'm gonna need some cheeseburgers after this. Is your fish dry too?" she asked Natasha, who nodded. "Gah. Why can't they serve normal food at these things?"

"Because politicians are cheap," Natasha said, "they're more concerned about throwing money at research for shrimp treadmills than actually fixing broken systems — that they designed to be broken in the first place due to all the bureaucratic red tape."

"I'd honestly eat a dozen MREs than this," Steve said, sipping at his water. Even the water tasted bland. "You know, during the war Bucky" — he swallowed down the lump of emotions in his throat. It was hard talking about Bucky, about the time before the fall, when he still had his best friend — "Bucky would carry extra MREs on him. The Commandos and I were on a scouting mission. Didn't have any chance to stop and eat and around evening I just collapsed. Everyone panicked and they radioed Howard who put Peggy on and she told us that I needed to eat. Her exact words were: Did any of you geniuses think about giving him something to eat? You were briefed on his metabolic state" — he chuckled, remembering how Peggy fretted over him when they got back to base. She even sat and watched him eat the meal he was given and then bombarded him with questions. Later Bucky had told him that his girlfriend was bossy, he fervently denied the former but didn't say anything about the latter; Bucky had simply smirked. Missing her was a dull ache in his chest, a pain he was still struggling to deal with. Fingers wrapped around his hand and he looked at Natasha, who gave him a gentle encouraging smile; as if she was telling him it was okay to miss Peggy, to acknowledge the grief, and that she was here if he needed to talk to someone. — "Since then, Buck always carried spare MREs and as soon as I started feeling lightheaded, he made me eat them." He smiled. "Awful things. Tasted like cardboard, but kept me in the game."

"Since we're sharing awful food stories," Carol said, "when I was in flight training, they have you do the G-force simulator. Spins you around real fast" — she twirled her finger around — "so you can get used to gravity pushing down on you like a weight. I had a cheeseburger for lunch, which was right before my turn on the merry-go-round."

"Why do we have to hear a vomit story?" Clint whined. Carol kicked him in the shin. "Ow."

"Let me tell you, barfing pulling five G's is not fun. Your barf shoots out an inch or so in front of your face before comes screaming straight back. It was terrible getting out of my hair, oh my god. I kept it short for two months after that." Carol grinned. "Maria always laughed when she heard _Cheeseburger_ over the radio."

"That's it," Clint said, pushing his half-eaten dinner away from him, "I'm done and I'm swearing off cheeseburgers."

"Huh" — Thor gave the ceiling a pensive glance — "always did wonder why Fury called it the _Cheeseburger Initiative_ instead of the _Avengers Initiative_." He smiled. "Now I know."

"Tony made so many lame quips about that," Steve said, rubbing his brow. "I wanted to punch him." It was bad enough that he had only been defrosted for a mere two months before Fury came to him asking about the damn tesseract and then he found out he was going to be fighting an army from outer space with four other people he didn't really know and that one of their number had gone rogue because the Norse god of mischief — Loki — was leading said alien army. Tony's vexatious yammering made him want to punch him in the jaw. "Glad he told Fury we were going to be called the Avengers. I don't know if I could stand being called a Cheeseburger."

Carol burst into laughter at that, slapping her hand against the table. "Oh, I'm sorry I missed that. I bet it was hilarious with you guys all meeting for the first time."

"If you consider plotting murder hilarious" — Natasha smirked — "then yes, it was."

"Where were you exactly during all this?" Clint asked, fixing Carol with a beady eye stare. "We really could've used your sparkle-fists when aliens were pouring through a hole in the sky over New York."

"Top secret intergalactic mission," she said, "just be thankful Fury's message got to me when it did and I was able to get to Earth in time to save Tony from becoming a human pancake."

"Top secret," Clint said, rolling his eyes, "why am I not surprised."

"Well, you're rather grumpy tonight, Barton," Carol said, resting her chin on her palm. "Is it because I brought up Bobbi? Miss your ex-wifey-poo?"

"Don't make me hurt you, Carol," Clint said. Carol snorted. "I mean it."

"Alright, people," he said, "settle down, we're all on the same team here." The busboys came back, taking their plates away and asking if they would like dessert. Carol stood up, yanking Natasha by the arm. "Where are you two going?"

"To powder our noses, Rogers," Carol said, "I'll bring her back in one piece. Tut-tut." And with that the two women sashayed out of the ballroom. The other guests began to get restless and Steve wondered what was supposed to happen at this point. Natasha hadn't been clear on the mission, other than that they needed a distraction to sneak away and into the rest of the hotel in order to find Matt's evidence. He drummed his fingers on the table. Thor and Clint got up, heading over to the table where the others sat. This party reminded him of that one time he had dinner with Roosevelt and his cabinet along with a few high-ranking members of the military and Congress. Senator Brant had arranged it, knowing the heads of state would want to see the product of their super soldier experiment. Even if the result consisted of one man — something the admirals and generals never stopped to remind him of.

"This seat taken?" a woman's voice asked. Steve looked to his right to see a woman in a backless cream gown with a flared skirt. Tiny crystals studded the bodice and she had teardrop pearls dangling from her lobes. Her blond hair was tied back into a tight bun and there was a dangerous look in her brown eyes. Beautiful yet deadly, like a rainbow viper. She didn't wait for him to answer before sitting down. "Stephanie Malick." She held out her hand.

"Steve Rogers," he said, shaking her hand and surprised to notice she had a firm grip. "You uh... seem familiar." There was something about her. She looked a little bit like Sharon. Stephanie laughed, touching his arm.

"I have that face," she said. "No, my father is a wealthy businessman, you probably seen him on the news from time to time and as his daughter I'm something of a socialite, so I have my time in the spotlight." She waved her hand around at the scintillating crowd. "I bet you're used to all this pomp and circumstance, huh?"

He gave a nervous chuckle, sipping his water. "Well," he said, trying to squirm away from her. Something about this woman screamed danger, an innate sense of prey spying a predator. Where in the hell did Natasha and Carol go? How long did it take them to powder their noses? "I've been to my fair share of these things back in the day. Can't say I ever got used to them. Don't like the spotlight."

Stephanie hummed, inching closer to him. "My, my, humble _and_ handsome, what are the odds of that." More and More people began to rise and head to the other ballroom for more socializing and dancing. The gala felt like it was nearing a lull and Steve wondered if there was going to be a speech from the senator at some point. "Men like you are quite rare Steve — can I call you Steve or do you prefer Captain?" She winked.

None of the women that passed by looked like Natasha or Carol. Sweat began to dampen his palms and that familiar tightness in his chest — something that he hadn't felt since Project: Rebirth — grew. Steve wracked his brain, trying to figure out a way to disengage from this woman. Desperately, he tried to signal to Tony or Bruce but the two men were in a deep conversation with Betty about something (probably science related). A bathroom excuse would do the trick, but he had a feeling that Stephanie would just follow him if he tried that and he didn't have Natasha's skills to lose her in a crowd. "Steve," he forced out in a rush. "Just Steve."

A dangerous smile. "Steve," she said, "now is that short for Steven? Do you spell it with a v or a ph?" She picked up the glass of water that still had Natasha's lip print on the rim and took a sip. "Stephanie is the feminine version of Stephen."

"Uh... it's short for Steven... why?" The bathroom excuse would have to do, Natasha and Carol weren't coming back any time soon. Damn women and their insufferably long-time spending in the bathroom. Carol probably had started Natasha on some gossip and they were giggling instead of powdering their noses. "Can you excuse me?" he asked, pushing away from the table. "I need—"

"Lyubimiy!" Natasha's sugary sweet voice shattered the dull murmuring of the crowd as she waltzed over to them, took his face in both of her hands and planted two firm kisses on his cheek before following up with a third lingering kiss on his lips. "I'm sorry I took so long," she purred, just a hint of a Russian lilt to her words. He swallowed, realizing her enjoyed the sound of her English with that exotic Slavic drawl. She slipped into his lap, hand slipping into his coat. "Who's this?" she asked, tilting her head in Stephanie's direction.

Stephanie gave Natasha a sour smile, eyes narrowing. "Stephanie Malick" — she stood up — "and I was just leaving." She walked off, vanishing into the crowd. The tension uncoiled from his muscles bit by bit, and he pressed his nose into the crook of Natasha's neck and kissed her skin.

"Thanks for saving me," he said, "I felt like she was gonna gobble me up and spit out my bones." He held Natasha tighter. "Let's get this mission done so we can go home." He hummed when Natasha ran her fingers through his hair. "You took your sweet time."

"Had to make sure the Senator was where I needed him to be and to convince Carol to let him at least touch her ass." She kissed his brow. "Didn't want it to take that long."

"It's fine." He pressed little kisses to her skin, reveling in the feel of her skin, that cinnamon and vanilla scent of her perfume. He closed his eyes, savoring the fact that she was in his arms and that he loved her, that she knew he loved her. "I'm fine."

"She said her name was Malick?" Natasha asked, her gaze fixed on the crowd as if she was trying to spot Stephanie. There was no way of noticing the mysterious woman in the crowd of beautiful elite women. She looked like everyone else at this point.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah she did. Stephanie Malick. Her father's some businessman, why?" he asked, not sure what Natasha was getting at. Natasha had a way of puzzling things out in her head that he would never understand. It was the spy in her. Always looking for another angle, another piece of the puzzle. Peggy had that same thought process too: a silent distant stare with a slight frown to her lips.

"Let's go," she said, "Carol should be ready soon." She slid off his lap and began to head to the other ballroom. Huffing softly, he stood up and followed her. An electronic crunch sounded beneath his shoe and he looked down on the ground. There was a small broken piece of electronic equipment, no larger than a button. It smoked and sparked, the last bit of energy dying from it. Frowning, he stooped to pick it up. "Rogers," Natasha snapped.

"Coming," he said and abandoned the tiny device on the floor. He caught up with Natasha, taking her hand and entered the larger ballroom, in this brighter light room he noticed that she was no longer wearing her bracelet but instead a pair of silver bracers. "Those suit you," he said.

"Thanks." She nodded in a vague direction, but in a moment, he noticed Carol coming out of wherever she was hiding in the crowd, passing Senator what's-his-face. The blobby fat man took the bait, grabbing Carol's ass as she walked pass. Never mind the man's stick thin sour face wife was standing next to him or that he was in a middle of a crowded ballroom. It didn't matter the time period, it seemed, some things never changed. Even from the other side of the ballroom, he could see Carol's hands glow a deep reddish-orange, her glass melting into a puddle at her feet.

"Did you just grab my ass?" Carol snarled, loud enough for her voice to echo off the walls. The senator paled and gave a strangled yelped as Carol grabbed him by the neck and hoisted him a good ten inches off floor. Thankfully, her dress was long enough that it hid the fact her feet were no longer touching the ground. Her other hand glowed the same color though it had arches of light swirling around it. "I should punch you into the next galaxy for that!"

Steve glanced at Thor and he could have sworn electrical sparks danced along thr god's arms and between his fingers, dark storm clouds forming overhead, the look of murderous rage in his eyes. "Is Thor gonna—"

"C'mon," Natasha said, tugging on his arm. "Let's go." Steve nodded and followed Natasha to the elevators. Nobody stopped them, nobody noticed them. Everyone was focused on Captain Marvel threatening the senator. Natasha pressed the button and, in a few seconds, the golden doors rumbled open, revealing the empty elevator car. He stepped in and she slid in besides him, pressing button with the desired floor. The doors rumbled close and she held up her wrists, pressing a small button on the side of each of them. A blue light flashed once and then faded. "Stealth Widow Bites," she said, grinning and hiked up her dress to show a ring of Widow stings around her thigh and a sleek Walther PPK. "You didn't think I wouldn't come prepared, now would you?"

He laughed, opening the left side of his jacket to show her the black handle of his Colt .45. "Can't leave my best girl unprotected now, can I?" He winked. Natasha smiled, shaking her head at him. The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and Natasha was already fishing free the card shaped paper from her cleavage. The paper fell away to reveal a hotel keycard. The doors opened and they stepped out into the long eerily empty hallway. The soft white glow of the lights felt alien on the nape of his neck and stillness of the hallway made the little hairs there stand up.

"This way," Natasha said, gathering a fistful of her skirt and trotting down the hall. Steve was amazed at how well she could move in heels. The carpet was plush, masking their footfalls and this reminded him of a mission he did with Peggy back during the war. They had gone to Paris to intercept a Hydra spy trying to sneak into Wakanda. They had found the man in his hotel room, a member of the Résistance having caused a distraction downstairs allowing them to sneak away.

"Last time I did this was spring of '44," he said as they stopped at the door to the senator's room. "With Peggy... in Paris." A sad smile graced his lips, remembering how he promised Peggy — after she told him about visiting Paris as a little girl — that they'll go see the city after the war was over. "Wanna go to Paris with me? I haven't seen it since the war?"

"Sure," she said sliding the keycard into the reader. "We can make it a date." She pulled it out, the light flashed green and she pressed down on the handle, using her shoulder to open the heavy door. The senator's room was luxurious, overlooking the city. It was empty, suitcases open, but nothing in disarray. A single light glowed from the bed room. Natasha's bracers hummed as she charged them and he pulled out his Colt. There by the window sat Stephanie holding a folder.

"Captain America, Black Widow" — a malicious smirk on her lips, a deadly glint in her eyes — "looking for this?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> This was a fun chapter. Shorter than what I planned but longer than what I expected. The next chapter should be exciting and up in July. Happy reading! 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	11. To Catch Lightning

It felt like the entire world tipped to a forty-five-degree angle and everything was sliding out from under them. Stephanie was lounging in the chair, ankles crossed with that manila file folder in her hand and a smirk on her lips like a cat that just ate the canary. The dim light of the room made the crystals on her bodice sparkle, and the golden orange glow from the street lamps outside cast her in enough shadow fit for a femme fatale from a classis noir film. They had blundered into a trap. "I do hope Captain Marvel doesn't kill the senator," Stephanie said, setting the folder down on the table beside her. "Daddy doesn't like it when his plans get wrinkled."

"Who are you?" Natasha asked, her arms relaxed at her side. "And what do you want with that file?"

Stephanie gave a nonchalant shrug, lacing her fingers in her lap. "Oh, I don't really need the file. It's useless to me. I just wanted to see the looks on your faces" — a conniving smirk spread across her face — "it was worth it after all." She shifted in her chair. "As for who I am" — that smile, full of vicious hate, grew wider — "Stephanie Malick."

If Natasha recognized the name she didn't show it. Instead, she merely lifted her chin. "If the file is meaningless to you, then why do this?"

Again Stephanie shrugged. "How are you doing, Natasha? Or should I call you Natalia, since Natasha is rather familiar and I don't think we're exactly friends."

Natasha raised her arm, her bracer humming as it charged. "Answer the question." Stephanie didn't seem phased by the threat. If anything, she seemed even more relaxed. Steve narrowed his eyes, trying to puzzle out what her next move would be before she acted upon it.

"Did you enjoy the gala? You and Steven made quiet a stunning pair on the dance floor." Stephanie cocked her head like a curious wolf, confused as to why the pair if rabbits hadn't yet bolted for their warren. He twitched when she used his full name. "I really hope this works out for you Natasha. Really, I do. After the tragedy that befell Nikolai" — Steve barely caught the minute twitch of Natasha's jaw — "And Rose? How is she? Oh right" — that hellacious grin appearing once more on her deceptively beautiful face — "she's dead. Did you beg her to take another breath? Try to bargain with God for her to be spared? How long did she live? A few hours? Minutes? Pity really."

"Natasha?" Steve asked. "What is she talking about?" As far as he knew she didn't have children, she told him the first night they made love that she was sterilized. There was no way she could have children. And who was Nikolai?

"How do you know about that?" Natasha asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Stephanie shrugged, stood up and walked pass them. "You don't get to walk away from me."

"Oh, but I do," Stephanie drawled and nodded to the file on the table. "You have what you want. I don't need to be here. Besides, if you hurt me" — a casual shrug — "it'll be a shame if someone broke Audrey's fingers. She's such a talented cellist."

Natasha swallowed, her arm falling to her side and she took a step back. The mind game was getting ridiculous; he grabbed Stephanie's arm, his grip tight. "Enough of the mind games. What do you want?"

Stephanie looked at his grip, one brow arched. "Careful Steven, hurt me and well… it would be a shame if something happened to Director Carter. Especially in her condition." The threat against Peggy chilled him to the bone. Stiffly, he let her go. She rubbed her arm. "I hope it didn't bruise."

"You touch Peggy and I'll—"

"You'll what? Hurt me and bad things will happen." Stephanie said. "You have the file. You have your information. I suggest you take it and go before I change my mind." She smiled. "Besides you ask too many questions Steve" — she giggled; it wasn't a pleasant sound — "don't you know corpses are better left well alone." With that, she blew him a kiss and left the room. He stood there, chest heaving as he stared at the door.

"She knew… she knew… how did she… who is she and how does she know?" Steve spun around staring at Natasha. "Who's Rose? Nikolai?"

Natasha ignored him, grabbing the file. "Shut up, Steve. I'll explain later." He stood there, gasping for breath. Stephanie had slipped the knife right into the chinks of their armour, pierced their vulnerable underbellies without so much as raising her pinky finger. The frustrating feeling of helplessness shuddered through him. A primal shout ripped from his throat and his fist went through the wall. Drywall and plaster dust came away with his fist, a few drops of blood on his knuckles. Natasha arch a brow. "Feel better?" she asked.

"No." He ran his hand through his hair. "I... I have to call the nursing home. Make sure Peggy's okay. I have to go see her." Anxiety twisted his heart, the rapid tattoo against his chest. Fear spiraled into panic — the golden orange of the rising sun sparkling off the ice, the wind howling through the hole in the windshield freezing his skin, the looming piano black ocean ivory white caps reaching towards him like the frigid fingers of Neptune. Peggy's voice calling his name through the static, drowned out from the ice sundering from the impact of the plane crash. "Peggy. My God… Peggy. I have…" Waking up with strange people poking and prodding him, marveling at him still being alive. Opening his eyes into a room he didn't recognize, with a game he remembered being there playing on a radio, and a woman dressed in an uncanny attempt to resemble an Army secretary from the 40s, only to escape and see the dazzling lights and sleek cars, the technology all around him like a cityscape straight from the pages of a _Buck Rogers_ comic book.

"Steve?" Natasha's voice broke through the haze of panic, her cool palm against his cheek. "Steve." He looked at her, focusing on the green of her eyes, the vermilion of her hair, how plump her lips appeared. "You with me?"

He blinked a few times, reality shifting itself back into place as be took several shuddering breathes. "Yeah" — he nodded — "yeah. I'm good. Let's get out of here." Heavy thumping footsteps echoed down the hall. Stephanie must've altered the Senator's bodyguards about them. If he got a running start he could leap from the room to the building across the street. Probably break a few bones, dislocate his shoulder but he'll live and so would Natasha. "Okay. I'm going to run at the window, I want you to —" a stinging slap stopped him mid-sentence. "What the hell, Nat?" The door opened.

"How could! How could do this to me?!" Natasha screamed, hysterical. She shoved against his chest, pushing the file into his arms as well; a distraught expression on her face. "I thought we'd keep this between us, Grant?"

"Ma'am?" one of the ham-necked guards asked, coming up to them. Steve noticed that while they gripped their pistols, they were relaxed upon seeing it was nothing but a lover's spat. "You seem to be in —"

"I know who's room I'm in!" Natasha snapped, pushing the few strains of hair out of her face in an aggravated manner. "Grant swore to me he wouldn't find out, that this would all be secret! He knows my relationship with the Senator!" Natasha looked at the guards. "I'm sorry," she said, softening her voice as she went up to the bald guard. "Causing you all this trouble. You won't tell the Senator?"

The bald guard let go of his pistol. "No. Course not. So long as you leave. We won't tell the Senator."

It was a barely perceived twitch of her wrists that activated her bracers, the electric hum of them charging up lasted for a second. "Good." Natasha smirked, firing two small darts at the guards. They grunted, clutching their necks before crumpling to the floor, drool oozing out of the corner if their mouths. "C'mon, Steve. Pick your jaw off the floor. We have to get out of here before their friends come." Natasha winked at him, delicately stepping over the prone guards. Steve stared, watching how her hips swayed. Natasha's ass was heart shaped and that the silky fabric of her dress hugged it perfectly. As if she could tell he was staring she shot him a grin over her shoulder. "Like what you see, Rogers?"

Chuckling, he stepped over the groaning guards and trotted up to her. Natasha smirked, easily sidestepping him, almost flitting to the gilded elevator. An impish smile on her face, the light glittering off her jewels and dress: a sparkling fairy queen capturing his heart. If she had lived longer, his mother would've warned him about such roguish women. The boyish smile never left his face as he caught her delicate wrist, pressing her against the doorframe of the elevator.

"You're a tease," he said, the words coming out in a sultry purr. She laughed, tracing his jaw. "Why'd you hit me?"

A half shrug. "Bucket list item." That playful teasing smirk on her lips stoked a fire in his belly. Behind her the elevator dinged its arrival. "Ever had sex in an elevator, Rogers?"

He kissed her, sucking her lip and pushing her into the confined box with its faux mahogany siding and shiny brass handles and buttons. "Steve." She arched a brow. "I don't like it when you call me Rogers. Sounds like you're trying to keep distance between us." His lips brushed against hers with each word he spoke; tasting the lingering flavor of wine still upon her lips. Speaking wasn't as fun as kissing, something he resumed promptly. Natasha moaned softly, tilting her head back, encouraging to trail his kisses lower. The heady scent of her perfume and musk added fuel to that burning fire in his gut and he pressed her against the elevator wall.

"Steve." Her voice came out in a breathy whisper, one leg trying to get over his hip. A groan escaped her and she tried to angle them closer to the buttons so they could get out of here. He paused for a moment to look at the buttons and leaned over to hit the one for the lobby. Then he went back to worshiping her chest, trying — in vain — to keep it in his pants. Those little whimpering sounds she made whenever he found a hot spot drove him wild. It took a considerable amount of will not to tug too hard at her dress and rip it to shreds.

"You're a damn tease doll," he growled against her neck, his hips grinding against hers. The throaty little laugh she gave him when she felt how much he wanted her; he growled, low in his throat. "Damn fucking tease."

Natasha pushed him away slightly. "Naughty words," she whispered against his lips, "you sure you wanna keep kissing me with such a dirty mouth?'

"Yep." And he put word to deed, kissing her and grabbing the middle of her skirt to hike it up. Questing fingers found her supple thigh, teasing their way up to the junction between hip and leg, towards the treasure he sought. Those seeking fingers brushed against the soft outer petals of her womanhood, only to find them slick with want. He looked at her, surprised.

"Don't like panty lines," she said, pulling him back into a crushing kiss and trying to angle her hips to get his fingers where she wanted them to go. He wasn't going to give it to her; she teased him, so now it was his turn: an eye for an eye, that sort of thing. Steve couldn't help but chuckle when she moaned in frustration. The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival at the ground floor. Grumbling, Natasha pushed him away, shimming the skirt of her dress down and smoothing out the wrinkles. Deftly, she pushed her hair back into place, smudged her make-up once more and plucked the folder from against his chest. Smirking, she glanced down at his pants. "Make yourself presentable, I'm going to tell Pepper we're leaving." She exited the elevator, swaying her hips in that erotically hypnotic manner.

* * *

Steve joined her a few minutes later and together they said goodbye to Pepper and Tony, checked on Carol to make sure she didn't kill the senator and left the gala. As they left, he spotted Stephanie outside, a slender cigarette between her fingers. She smiled at them as they passed, the silvery thread of smoke curling from the cigarette's end, and waved. Whatever good vibes he felt from the elevator vanished. Natasha didn't seem to notice the woman as their limo pulled up and she yanked the door open. He slipped in after her, watching Stephanie as the limo drove away, sleek as a fish through water. "Where to, ma'am?" the chauffer asked.

"Nelson and Murdock, Hell's Kitchen," Natasha said, pulling her clutch out, finding her little hand mirror and gave her face a quick once over. She snapped it close and then pulled out her phone. Steve glanced at her as she scrolled through her contacts until she found Matt's number and hit the call button.

"Are you sure he'll be at the office?" he asked, as she leaned against the door. She shrugged. The muted lights shone in the dark, a riot of neon colors. Something at the base of his skull itched. It was almost too easy: Stephanie _letting_ them have the file, Stephanie _letting_ them get away. No blaring sirens behind them, only two guards had come (and that was because he punched a hole in the wall). She had mentioned her father had plans and he didn't like it when those plans went awry. Fury had mentioned that not all the rats went down with the ship — then again, he had no proof that Stephanie was with Hydra. For all he knew she could be working with another organization. Tony had mentioned this organization called AIM and Bruce also mentioned an offshoot of it called RAID. He didn't know enough about either to say definitively if Stephanie was working with them or not. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Damn." Natasha scowled at her phone. "He's not at his office. Drive change of plans," she said and gave the chauffer the address. The man nodded, making a right on the next street. After a few minutes — neither he nor Natasha said anything — the limo parked in front of a sorry looking apartment building. The brick siding had pock marks from countless children throwing rocks at it, the iron of the fire escapes had spots of rust that even he could see in the dim light of the streetlamps. The front door had peeling paint. It felt like the building was one Chitauri invasion away from falling down.

"Couldn't we wait until morning to do this?" he asked as Natasha marched into the apartment building and up the stairs to the top floor. Even the stairs felt sticky and creaked beneath his feet. Lingering scents of vomit and urine and cleaner permeated the stairway, and when the lamp light from the streets peered in just right onto the windowsill, he could see the little black rice shaped droppings of mice. Natasha shook her head as they reached landing of the last floor. A door cracked open and a scowling old woman poked her head out. Natasha gave her a beatific smile.

"Hi Fran," she said. "Matt home?"

"Tell him to keep it down," Fran said and closed her door with a sharp click. Steve arched a brow and Natasha raised her hand to knock on Matt's door when it opened. Matt Murdock stood before them in his underwear with disheveled red hair and a hicky forming on his left shoulder. His sightless blue eyes rolled around, seeking the light they could not see. Matt didn't face them, instead he stood at an angle, right ear cocked towards their chests. "Natasha," Matt said, his voice gruff. "What are you doing here?"

Natasha didn't say anything. Just pushed passed him, slapping the file to his chest. "I'm surprised you're home Matthew," she said. Steve followed her inside, watching as Matt flipped the file open and ran his fingers over the pages. "Your evidence," she said, "I'm sure Karen can translate it into braille for you or she can read it aloud while you two have another private meeting in your office." Matt flushed. Natasha looked around and he wondered if she missed coming here after a long day, missed being with Matt. Insecurity tickled his gut and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep it at bay, reminding himself that Natasha was with him now, not Matt. As if she could sense his insecurity, she came over to him, snuggling against his side and resting her head on his chest. Pride swelled within him as he snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her close. This was his girl and Natasha wanted Matt to know it just as he did. She lifted her head from his chest just a little. "I'd expected you to be out and about tonight."

"I had a date." Matt snapped the file close. "And by the way you move, so did you." Steve arched a brow, tilting his head at Matt. The man was blind, there was no way he could tell what Natasha was wearing. Yet, Matt had opened the door before she even knocked. Almost as if he knew they were coming before they even reached his door. Whatever Matt's secrets were he kept them to himself and if Natasha knew, she hadn't made him privy to such information yet.

"Matt?" Karen came out of the bedroom, the thick comforter wrapped around her thin body. "Oh." Her eyes widened at seeing them. "H-Hi." And her cheeks turned red as a cherry.

"Ma'am," he said, offering her his hand, though he never let Natasha leave his side. Karen looked awkwardly at Matt before shaking it. "Steve Rogers."

"Oh... wow... You should've stopped by the office, Foggy would've loved to meet you," she said. He smiled, a pang of longing in his chest for the anonymity of his youth, when he was just the skinny sickly kicked that got punched by the neighborhood bullies. Nobody knew who Steve Rogers was back then. Now, all he had to do was say his name and ten people were shoving their way towards him, flailing for pen and paper or their phones to get proof that they met the famous Captain America. After a while, it got exhausting.

"Maybe another time." He turned to Matt, offering his hand too — in an effort to ease the awkwardness of the entire situation. Matt arched a brow, but took his hand. Steve smiled, pleasantly, squeezing until he felt the bones grind together. For his part, Matt didn't flinch. His face remained stony and impassive. They let go. The tension left Matt's shoulders and he took two steps towards Karen and pulled her close. It was a subtle sign of acquiesces; Matt acknowledging his better and approving of Natasha's choice. Whatever friction lingered between them, he and Matt had nipped it in the bud with a brief handshake. The uncomfortable queer miasma dissipated like fog before the sun.

"Quite a grip," Matt said with a slight upturn of the corner of his lips, flexing his hand. "My dad always said you can tell the measure of a man by the grip of his handshake."

"Smart man," Steve said, even though it was disconcerting that Matt didn't face him directly. Natasha smiled at them, kissing his cheek. "Hey doll." He pecked her lips and his hand drifted down, fingers trailing over the curve of her hip and the plump swell of her ass. They should just go back to the tower after this, make love, lounge the following day away in bed. Happiness swelled like a balloon in his chest and he felt like he could float.

"Matt." Natasha said, drawing Matt's attention to them. She pulled away from his side, smiled blithely at Karen before delivering a sharp right hook into Matt's jaw. Steve looked down, biting his lip to keep from laughing. It reminded him of his first day at Camp Lehigh, how Peggy had socked Hodge in the nose and Colonel Philips had merely asked her if she was breaking in the new recruits.

Karen screamed as Matt crumpled to the floor with a groan, hand going to his jaw. "Matt!" Karen dropped to her knees, one hand resting on Matt's shoulder. "Matt are you okay?" she asked. Natasha tilted her head as Matt got to his knees. "You punched him."

Natasha arched a brow. "Was it that obvious?" she sneered. Karen scowled, standing up to face Natasha. "What are you going to do, Karen? Matt had it coming."

Karen opened her mouth to protest. "She's right, Karen," Matt said, rubbing his jaw and got to his feet. "I deserved that."

Natasha snorted. "You deserve a lot more than that, Matt" — Natasha shrugged — "lucky for you, I'm feeling charitable tonight. But I will leave you with this" — she closed the gap between them, jamming her finger into Matt's sternum — "screw this up and my generosity will disappear." She patted his cheek then spun on heel and walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> A short chapter but a fun one. Hope you guys enjoy. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.
> 
> xoxox


	12. You and I and All the Little Lights

_For you and I, we fall apart to find the truth is our love survives. When every missing part of you makes me wanna cry. For you and I... can you feel the pain drip, drip down like rain? — Tarja_

_We're born with millions of little lights shining in the dark, and they show us the way. One lights up, every time you feel love in your heart; one dies when it moves away. — Passenger_

* * *

The decrepit door with its peeling paint slammed shut behind them. Natasha radiated life, the orange glow of the street lamp shimmering off her diamond necklace, turning her ivory skin into a warm cream color. The smile on her face was wide as the Grand Canyon and her eyes brighter than the prettiest spring day. "I can't go another second in these heels." Natasha leaned against the wall, lifting her foot and slipping the flimsy looking heel off her foot, and then the other. She sighed, wiggling her toes against the sidewalk. "Much better." Swinging her heels by the back straps, she walked down the sidewalk, hips swaying. He paused, staring at the sleek black limo parked against the curb.

"What about the car?" he asked, nodding to the limo. Natasha turned, arching a brow and then shrugged, continuing her way down the street. "Nat, wait!" he trotted after her, catching her by the arm. "Are we —"

"Relax," she said, pressing a finger to his lips. "We're just taking a little walk." She grabbed his hand, tugging him along the sidewalk. Her happiness was infectious. This was a side of her he never saw, a side he never fathomed she would show to anyone other than those she deemed closest to her. The city lights muted the stars — helped along by the gloomy clouds that had blown in — yet the lights twinkled like man-made stars, advertising everything imaginable. A few people were out at this hour, some lurked in the dark alleyways and eyed them mistrustfully from the protective shadows. Others walked down the street, lost in their own thoughts (or their phones). The wind cut cold and sharp through his tuxedo jacket and he could see the goosebumps on Natasha's bare shoulders and arms. If the cold bothered her, he couldn't tell. While he walked at a leisurely pace, she walked three steps ahead though she never let go of his hand.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked.

"Really Rogers?" she asked, looking back at him. "I grew up in Russia, I know what cold is." They stopped at an intersection, cars going by at a slower pace than normal for New York, it was night after all. Nobody seemed to be in a rush to get anywhere. Natasha pressed the button on the lamp post, a shiver passed through her and she hopped on his feet, forcing him to lace his fingers at the small of her back.

"Feet cold?" he asked. She shrugged, pecked his lips, leaning as far back as she dared. A big dumb grin spread across his face, the red of the traffic light brought out the crimson in her hair, darkened her eyes to a gorgeous emerald, hypnotizing him, drawing him deeper into their alluring depths. The happiness spread from her to him, warming their both against the coming winter's chill.

"What?" she asked, tilting her head and he pressed his forehead against hers. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He nuzzled her nose, kissed her soft and languidly. "Steve?"

"Nothing Nat," he said, a content expression on his face. "Just happy" — being with her, like this: light and careful; he never realized how lost he was. Just another lost soldier unable to remember that he had a home. Yet, somehow, Natasha gave him one — "I'm happy." The light turned green, the little walk figure appeared and the traffic signal announced it was safe to walk. "C'mon," he said and wiggled his feet. Laughing, she hopped off and picked up her skirt to trot with him across the crosswalk. The first icy drops of rain started on the other side of the street and it only took a minute or two for the wintery deluge to begin. Natasha laughed, letting go of his hand and twirling around with swan-like grace, careless that her dress was getting soaked. Raising her arms, she undid her hair, shaking out her auburn tresses and allowing the cold rain to soak them. The cold of the rain paled her skin, but the sheer joy on her face caused his heart to swell. She hiked up her skirt, skipping from puddle to puddle as if she was allowing her inner child to take delight in something she never got to experience. She hopped onto a lamppost, looping a leg around it and lazily twirled, giggling in sheer joy. "Aren't you worried about getting cold or sick?" The rain had soaked through his jacket and he shivered. He hated the cold — hated _being_ cold. Ever since he was a boy, he hated the winter months. They brought sickness and his mother's constant worry that he'll die before Christmas. Being frozen for seventy years hadn't endear him to anything below sixty-five degrees. "It's raining."

Natasha launched herself off the lamppost, landing cat-like on her feet and turned that easily into the first arabesques in ballet. Moving to a song only she could hear, she rotated on her ankle, arching her back and grabbing her other foot. The rain cascaded off the roofs of the buildings and the eves over hanging on the windows, the pitter-pattering filling up his senses and accenting the whoosh of tires on wet pavement. She straightened as best she could and let her foot go, spinning in a tight circle and ending in effacé devant. "I like the rain," she said, settling her feet back on the ground. "Too bad we didn't bring an umbrella," she said, half-walking and half-dancing along the slick sidewalk. "I love the way it sounds against an umbrella" — she spread her arms and tossed them back like the wings of a swan — "the way the air feels, the smell of petrichor. Like God is washing the world clean."

He shook his head, catching up to her and grabbing her wrist. Her skin was wet and freezing and he pulled her close to his chest. Against his warmth, she shivered, hopping up onto his feet, lacing her fingers around his neck; he could feel her heels against his back. "You're such a girl."

She laughed. "You make that sound like a bad thing." She tapped his nose, her grin so wide and bright. It was infectious, his own lips mirroring it.

"Trust me," he said, cupping her face and kissing her. "It isn't." How did a skinny sickly Brooklyn boy end up this damn lucky? It had to be luck, there was no other logical explanation for how he found himself with Natasha — strong and fierce and kind — in his arms, swaying to some song only she could hear. If it weren't for the cold, he would believe that he was living a dream, a fantasy, some crazy illusion his brain conjured up while he slumbered away the decades incased in ice. Nothing else mattered, not this new era, not the things that Stephanie said. Maybe this was heaven: this feeling of content peace, with the woman he loved wrapped up in his arms. "Let's go home," he said, pressing a kiss to her brow.

"That's the thing Steve," she said, looking into his eyes. The way the streetlights glittered in her viridian irises drew him in, deep and deeper into their mysterious depths until he felt like he almost comprehend her soul. Her fingers danced along his cheek — clammy from the cold — and he leaned into her touch, kissing the heel of her palm. The rain had washed away her perfume — not that he cared — and only left the fresh clean set of water and her natural musk. O, how he wanted to drown in that scent, lost in the majesty of her. A woozy feeling came over him, not unlike being drunk — something he could barely remember since receiving the serum — and he held onto her like a life line. "I'm already home." The smile on her face was like a beacon in the stormy sea, guiding him to safe harbor. "Wherever you are, I'm home."

The sentiment behind her words pierced his heart, warming him from the inside out. He laughed, tossing his head back and he spun into the rain, holding her close. "I know that feeling," he said, pressing his back against a nearby lamppost. "I'm home with you too," he said. "Still, I'd like to get out of these wet clothes."

She laughed. "Clever Rogers" — she tapped his nose — "don't think you can fool me" — she kissed him, trailing from his lips to his exposed neck and left a suckling kiss on his Adam's apple that drew a whimpering moan from his throat — "I know you just want to get me out of this dress. You've been dying to all night."

He smirked, chuckling. "Damn, you caught me. The gig is up" — he kissed her soundly — "guess, I should just start right here then." Natasha shrieked a laugh as he began tugging at her dress and she smacked his chest.

"Okay, fine," she said, twisting free of his grasp and lightly stepping off his feet. "Let's go back to the tower" — she leaned as close as she dared, kissing his nose and he snapped playfully at hers; she giggled — "so you can get me out of this dress and ravish me."

"Sounds good to me, doll," he said.

"Lemme just call Carol and tell her where we are." She said and pulled out her phone.

* * *

"You know this is kinda surreal for me," Tony said as he stood next to Carol with a drink in his hand. "Normally, I'm the one sitting in the big kids time out" — he gave her a grin that he probably thought was suave and sipped his drink — "cause normally it's me causing the PR problems. But not tonight! Tonight it's you" — oh how she wanted to punch that shit eating grin off his face, but Carol figured that Pepper wouldn't be happy with her if she did. What Pepper saw in Tony was beyond her comprehension — "right Captain Whiz Bang?"

"Call me that again and you'll regret it," Carol said. She wasn't in the mood for his snark. Whatever his reason for coming to this isolated corner of the ballroom Pepper had forced her into for the rest of the night, she didn't want to know or deal with it. At least she had Thor with her; whether he was here to keep her company or because Pepper told him to so he wouldn't cause any further problems — she had noticed the tiny arches of electricity sparking through his fingers as she manhandled the senator — she didn't know and didn't feel like propping further. Pepper had been furious with her when she attacked the Senator and was on her phone for the rest of the night, trying to control the potential PR damage that she committed. It would not look good if on the front page of the Daily Bugle the headline was: _Captain Marvel strangles Senator_. Carol didn't see the problem, the man was a pig and so far wasn't doing a very good job at representing the people of New York. So what if he had burn scars in the shape of a woman's clenched hand around his porky throat for the rest of his life? Maybe then he'll think twice about touching women's asses.

Carol was never one for people watching, and she had spent the entire time she was in 'time out' — for that was what it was, no point in denying it — scrolling through her phone's twitter feed and watching all the marvelous hashtags pop up about her little blunder with the senator. They made her smile and she ignored Tony regaling her on one of his numerous quote-on-quote hilarious PR fiascos (he called them blunders). "In Asgard," Thor said in a voice loud enough for her alone to hear as he sat next to her on the spindly chair that groaned against his muscular weight, "you could have challenged the senator to a trail by combat. If he died, then he was clearly guilty of wrong doing."

"Or a crappy fighter." She turned off her phone, slipping it away and leaned against Thor's shoulder. He smelled of leather and pine and stardust. "In the Air Force, a lot of the older officers made passes at me. I went to non-judicial discipline reviews several times because I wouldn't be treated like a scrap of meat." She closed her eyes. All her life she had been trying to prove her worth to people that didn't matter. Her father — always trying to steer her into a more feminine role, refusing to send her to collage when she was clearly the better choice out of his three kids. The Air Force, who saw her as nothing more than a glorified test pilot for experimental planes, even though she aced all their best pilots. The Kree — more specifically, Yon-Rogg — who only saw her as a dangerous weapon to control. Only a few people in her life truly saw her for what she was and never tried forcing her to be something she wasn't. It was why she and Natasha had such a close friendship, it was why she was in this relationship with Thor, it was why she respected Steve so much.

"My mother would have liked you. You have fire and spark when struck. Yet, that fire is tempered by your good heart." Thor pressed a kiss to her brow. "'Tis why I love you." Carol smiled, knowing the raw wound his mother's death still had on his heart. If only she had gotten to Queen Frigga and Jane in time. 

"Love you too, Thor," she said, closing her eyes. All she wanted right now was go back to the tower with Thor and lay in bed with him. The click-clack of heels drew her out of her reprieve and she saw Pepper marching towards her. "Great." This was the last thing she wanted right now. A pissed off Pepper made even Natasha grimace. "Hi Pepper." She tried to force a happy smile, hoping to ease whatever punishment the fierce redhead had in store.

"Pep, you're looking lovely," Tony said, raising his glass to his — Carol wasn't sure if Tony and Pepper were dating or if they even had a relationship between… whatever they had — girlfriend. Pepper scowled and Tony bowed his head, cowering like a whipped dog.

Pepper folded her arms over her chest. "Good news is I manage to stave off the PR disaster," she said, "the Bugle will not print the story or post it on their website. And the Senator won't be pressing any charges."

"Even if he was, I'm sure Nat's little lawyer buddy would've been more than happy to tear the man to shreds in court," Carol said, her lips twitching into a malicious smirk. She met Matt once and despite the man's prickly demeanor he had a sharp mind and a knack for debate. That didn't remove him from her personal shit list for breaking Natasha's heart, though. Pepper rolled her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "What's the bad news?"

"In exchange for keeping this under wraps, I've agreed for a special tour of Avengers Tower. A meet and greet with the Avengers" — Carol groaned — "hey, this could of all been avoid if you hadn't almost strangled the senator."

"The man _touched my ass_ ," Carol said, plasma arches sparking around her clenched fists. Thor grabbed her hand, kissing her knuckles to calm her down. Tony — on the other hand —paled and stepped behind Pepper. "The perv had it coming."

Pepper closed her eyes with a world weary sigh. "Be that as it may, you shouldn't've done what you did" — Carol snorted — "so as 'punishment' you and the rest of the Avengers will be playing host to Mrs. Keaton's sixth grade class on the second Friday in December. It's just before the schools start their Christmas break. A nice little treat for the kids before Christmas. I expect you to be on your best behavior."

"Yes _mom_." Carol rolled her eyes (she heard Tony huff a laugh), leaning into Thor's firm side. "I will. I won't toss the annoying brats out the window."

"Oh for Pete's sake, Carol." Pepper dragged her hand down her face. "Why can't — wait? Where is Nat and Steve?" Pepper asked and looked around for the two wayward Avengers. "Do you know where they are?" She fixed Tony with a stare and he shook his head.

Carol shrugged. "Probably got bored and went off somewhere to play some grab-ass" — a teasing smirk bloomed across her face when she saw Pepper's cheeks redden further, while Tony's paled. Another PR nightmare if Captain America and Black Widow got caught fucking in the janitor's closest of the Plaza Hotel. — "or they went back to the tower to play their little grab-ass game" — she shrugged — "wasn't really paying attention, though. Was making sure Senator What's-his-face understood you don't grab a woman's ass."

"Right," Pepper said, pulling out her phone and scrolling through her contact lists. "Thanks Carol. Hopefully, Steve and Nat aren't in the janitor's closest screwing around." Pepper glanced at Tony. "That's something I expect from you," she said, grabbing his wrist as she walked off, muttering how all this would have been so much easier if Tony had just done something stupid — she could deal with that easily — Carol smirked when Tony protested.

"I mean, if they were that'd be hilarious," Carol said to Thor. Natasha had been in a much lighter mood these last few days now that she seemed to have gotten over whatever hesitation she had about dating Steve. There was still something holding her back — not that Carol expected it to all just go away — but her friend seemed to be dealing with it in a more mature manner. Then again, knowing Natasha, Carol figured she was just ignoring whatever niggling problem she had. Still, Natasha was happy and that made her happy too. "So" — she straightened in her uncomfortable chair — "my mom called me a few days ago and asked if I'll be heading down to Boston for Thanksgiving."

"What is Thanksgiving? I haven't spent this much time on Midgard — Earth — to become familiar with all your festivals and customs," Thor said.

"It's a great big feast. In school we were taught that it was to celebrate the Native Americans helping the Pilgrims. Now it's just celebrating togetherness and family and what we're thankful for."

"So it's like Winternights," Thor said, smiling, "drinking and reveling and feasting" — he nodded — "I approve."

"I have no idea what Winternights is but I mean… I guess," she said with a shrug, "I just want to know if you want to come with me."

"But of course! I wish to see your mother and kin." Thor squeezed her hand. "And for Yule you can join me in Asgard! We may even let Loki out for the celebrations and you can see that he is not all bad."

"You say that after he tried to invade the Earth with an army of Chitauri." Carol arched a brow. Thor's endless optimism that his adopted brother would one day see the light and fight on the side of good never ceased to amaze her. To have that unwavering faith in another person — well, the only other person she saw that in was Steve, though she highly doubt that Steve gave that faith to Loki.

Thor made a face. "Loki is not all bad…" he trailed off with a sigh befitting the long centuries he's seen. "We should go home. Rest." He pulled her close, burying his nose into her hair. "This reveling grows dull."

"Yeah. Let's go—" her phone buzzed. "Hello?" she asked, upon answering it. On the other end she could hear a man's voice, asking about pizza toppings.

"—Steve, I'm talking to Carol. Carol!" Natasha said, her voice overly loud through the phone. Carol wondered if Natasha was drunk. "Thanks for the diversion."

"You owe me," Carol hissed, "Pepper put me in 'time out' for the rest of the night. I had to listen to Tony _gloat_ about how he wasn't in trouble this time with Pepper for doing something asinine! Where are you two? We have to play host to a bunch of kids the second Friday in December just to make this all go away without it blowing up in our faces."

"Outside, we're heading to the subway — double pepperoni and double mushrooms, Steve." Natasha said. "It's too far to walk to the tower."

Carol chuckled. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you that Pepper is gonna be on a rampage tomorrow. Have fun you two," she said.

"Oh we will, he's been teasing me all night," Natasha said. "Not that I haven't been teasing him."

"Go get room!"

"What do you think I'm doing Danvers?"

Carol laughed. "I'll see you in the morning," she said. Natasha laughed before hanging up. Smirking, Carol looked at Thor. "Shall we go?" she asked, she had the keys to Natasha's place at Waldroft Towers, let the kids have Avengers Tower all to themselves for a little bit. Thor nodded, standing up and offering her his hand. She took it, looping her arm through his and together they left the gala, not even bothering to say bye to Pepper and Tony.

* * *

"Stark's gonna kill us," Natasha said as he lifted her up onto the railing in the elevator. "You know that right?"

Tony's delicate sensibilities were the farthest thing on his mind at the moment. Natasha consumed his senses. The heady scent of her musk mingling with the fading remnants of her perfume, the silky smooth softness of her skin — the supple give of firm muscles — and her breathy laughs interwoven with those little moans whenever he touched a hot spot: all drove him wild. He grunted, trying to work his fly open. The hot nips she left along his neck drove his senses to one goal — funny how pain and pleasure seemed to weave together into something heady and hedonistic — and his damn pants were getting in the way. "Don't care," he said. She laughed. "JARVIS can always delete the footage."

"Or leave the last ten seconds of it," she said in a devilish tone of voice. He laughed into her neck, sucking on her skin, showing the all the world that she was his. The elevator continued to climb to his floor, the gentle hum of the mechanisms failing to drown out Natasha moan when his fingers finally found their way between her legs. Slick and warm and wet — he groaned, more blood rushing further south and he regretted not going commando.

Leaving the last ten seconds of surveillance footage would drive Tony mad. It was an ingeniously devious plan. He smirked and slipped a finger into her. "God, I love you."

"Ditto." It came out as a moan, her back arching as much as it could with her pressed up against the glass — thank goodness, Tony installed one way glass for the elevators. The sound she made sent shivers down his spin. The zipper seemed to be caught on something and if he tugged any more he'd rip the entire thing off — not that he cared at this point.

"Captain," JARVIS said, the smooth British voice of Tony's AI butler coming through the speakers. "May I remind you that while I do enjoy a good rag against Mr. Stark, others do use this elevator and they may be less enthused with your little display of affection towards Agent Romanoff."

Steve growled, pressing his forehead against Natasha's shoulder. "Is JARVIS—"

"Cockblocking you?" There was a lilt of amusement in her tone. "Why I do believe he is." She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand free from between her legs. The light made the wetness on his fingers gleam, and she took them into her mouth and sucked. It was erotic and arousing and he groaned. Her tongue stroked the underside of his fingers and his legs trembled as he imagined what it would be like to have her hot mouth on his hard cock.

"You're not helping matters," he said, his voice something between a husky rasp and a aroused growl. She pulled his fingers out of her mouth with a wet pop and smirked; the devilish glint in her eyes bloomed brighter.

"I'm sure you can keep it together for a little bit longer, Steve," she said as the elevator dinged at his floor. She sashayed out, hips swaying and his eyes fixated on that lovely ass of hers. God, he wanted to feel those firm cheeks in his hands, run his thumbs along the soft skin and follow the curve down to her thighs. Biting his fist, he forced himself to think of Colonel Philips in a tutu. It was a ludicrous image, but it served to stave off his arousal — for the moment at any rate (Natasha had a way of worming her way back into his thoughts).

The door to his suite hissed open and he followed the trail of clothes leading from the door to his bathroom. "Just gonna make yourself right at home, huh, doll?" he asked as he stepped into his bedroom. A thin beam of light peeked out from his bathroom and he could hear the water running.

"You know it, babe," Natasha said and he chuckled as he pulled the drawers to his dresser open and pulled out one of the SSR shirt Shield had dressed him in after defrosting him. He nudged the door open and saw Natasha's silhouette through the frosty glass of the shower. Mist had formed over the mirror and the glass, yet it was enough for his imagination to run rampant. "You can join me," she said. "Need help washing my back."

The idea was tempting, too tempting. "That's alright," he said, taking a deep breath and keeping his desire under wraps for the moment — he can wait, besides, he was starting to feel a tad lightheaded — and placed the shirt on the counter top. "Shirt's on the counter for you."

"Thanks."

He stepped back out and tugged his bowtie loose, holding onto the imagine of Philips barking orders to the men in a tutu. It was funny and he chuckled to himself as he pulled the tuxedo jacket off and began to unbutton the white shirt. He tossed the shirt onto the chair, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the shadow of his reflection in the mirror. The city lights glittered: yellow and orange and white and a neon rainbow. The rain speckled the glass and for a moment he remembered Natasha dancing through the rain, giggling like a little girl with the biggest smile on her face. His heart swelled with affection for her, secreting away the little memory so he can keep it for those days when all hope seemed lost. The door creaked opened and Natasha stepped out into the dim bedroom, illuminated by the light of the bathroom. He turned around and swallowed. The shirt hung baggy and loose on her petite frame, falling to the middle of her thighs, rivulets of water zigzagged down the fabric from the ends of her dark auburn hair. Steve licked his lips and scrambled for the image of Colonel Philips in a tutu.

"Water's warm," she said, walking passed him. "I'll get the pizza if they come." She smiled. " _Hercules_?" she asked.

He blinked several times to get his brain working enough to think. "Uh — yeah, sounds good." He grabbed a t-shirt and some pajama pants before heading into the bathroom. He groaned, the steam still smelled of her. He undressed and hopped into the shower, forcing himself to focus on washing and not taking his time to indulge his senses of the woman that was in here moments ago. Keep it together Rogers, keep it together.

By some miracle he kept it together and joined Natasha a few minutes later on the couch. She snuggled against his side. "You smell nice."

"Thanks."

"Captain, the delivery man is here, shall I send him up to your suite?" JARVIS asked. His stomach gurgled at the mention of food, Natasha laughed and patted his middle. He took her hand and kissed her fingers. Smiling, he kissed her nose and then her lips, lingering there until she moaned softly and pressed herself further against his side. "Captain."

Grunting in annoyance, he pulled away from Natasha. "Yeah, send him up," he said, running a hand through his damp hair and grabbing the remote to turn the movie on. Natasha chuckled. "You're being a damn tease," he said, shuffling through his Netflix queue. "All night."

"You watched _Lady and the Tramp_ without me?" she asked, gasping in shock and smacking his arm. "How dare you."

"Sorry," he said, laughing. "It was cute. Didn't know you wanted to watch it with me." He found _Hercules_ , selecting it and then start from the beginning. "Made me want to get a dog."

"It's my favorite," she said, looking away, as the deep voiced narrator began telling the audience of the age of heroes. He blinked.

"Oh." He kissed her cheek. "Sorry, next time I'll watch it with you." He pulled her close, burying his nose into her hair and kept one ear out for JARVIS informing them that the pizza boy had arrived on the floor. After a few minutes, the AI did and he went to get the pizza. He tipped the pimple faced kid with one of the hundred dollar bills he had stashed around in the books he had around his suite. Part bribe to keep the kid quiet about delivering to Avengers Tower and part because he had the money. The wide eyed pimple face kid took the crisp hundred dollar bill and handed over the eight pizza boxes.

"Got some party going?" he asked, shoving the bill into his pocket. Steve shook his head. "Just hungry then?"

"Yeah, me and my girl just got back from something. Starved," he said, "take care son." The delivery boy nodded, pulling his phone out as he stepped into the elevator. Chuckling, he went back into his suite, setting the pizza boxes down on the coffee table.

"Wait!" Natasha shouted, rushing to get some paper towels and plates. She set the towels down on the coffee table. "Now; don't wanna get grease all over your nice table."

"Not mind, Pepper got it. Thought it fitted the mood of the room," he said, lifting the lids to sort through the pizzas. "These two are yours," he said. "And the rest are for me — hey, you have your own." He watched her steal a slice of his pizza. She smirked as she set it on her paper plate and then picked a slice from hers.

"What's yours is mine," she said, shrugging as she gracefully got up from the couch and went to the kitchen again. "And what's mine is mine." He heard her open a draw and the clink of metal against metal. "Beer?" she asked, opening the fridge.

"Sure. Should have some in the door." He took a bite of pizza. It wasn't the best pizza in New York — he needed to take Nat to Brooklyn again: to Totonno's, his old haunts (if they still stood), Coney Island; she owed him a date after all.

She came back with a fork and knife and two bottles of beer. "Trappist" — she watched him twist the tops off; he and Carol enjoyed annoying Tony with the 'twist off cap' trick, sometimes super strength came in handy — "fancy." He chuckled.

"You told me to become a snob about my alcohol, so I did." He resettled himself on the couch and took a long swallow from the bottle. Steve arched a brow when she set the plate on her lap. "You're seriously gonna eat your pizza with a knife and fork?" She scowled at him. "What?"

"I'm not an uncivilized barbarian," she said, cutting off the tip of the triangle. He rolled his eyes and reached for the knife and fork. "No, Steve!"

"Gimme them, Nat. I'm gonna show you how to eat pizza the _right_ way." She held them out of his reach. "Nat." Snorting, she handed over her knife and fork and he set them on the table. "Now, the proper way to eat pizza is like this" — he picked up a slice with one hand, fingers deftly pushing the two sides together into a taco like shape; he took a bite, pinching off the gooey cheese — "see? You keep all the toppings in and the sauce from dripping." He smirked. "You try."

"Just turn the movie back on," she grumbled, picking up her pizza and eating it as shown. Steve had a sneaking suspicion that she knew how to do it all along; he turned the movie back on. They ate in companionable silence, content in each other's company. After _Hercules_ they went to _Mulan_ and from _Mulan_ to _Lady and the Tramp_. Natasha tucked herself against his side, his arm around her shoulders and he played with her hair. The rain pitter-pattered against the window, the room dark save for the glow of the tv and the city lights. The empty pizza boxes sat on the table, a few more beer bottles had joined the original two as well. For the moment Stephanie's words felt miles and miles away, the troubles of the waking world a distant worry. The movie finished and Natasha gracefully uncoiled herself from his side, stretching cat-like and the shirt shifted upwards, revealing her gorgeous ass. She shot him a smirk over her shoulder. "You like what you see, soldier?" she wiggled her butt and he reached out, giving it a good smack. She squeaked, a giggle escaping her. "Who would've guessed that Captain America is an ass man."

He laughed, grabbing her hips and pulling her close to kiss the small of her back, running his nose along the divot of her spine. Such soft skin, smooth as silk, the color of ivory. Those long artist fingers of his traced the ropey scar on her back: smooth and thick, a shiny pale pink against her ivory skin. He kissed it, devoutly as if he was trying to sooth the pain of her past. Natasha gasp soft, her back arching into his touch. "What happened?" he asked, tracing it with his lips and fingers.

"I was twelve," she said, voice nothing more than a soft murmur, "was sent after a Serbian general with ties to the criminal underworld. I took him by surprise but over estimated my opponent. He cut me" — a rueful twitch of her lips — "still have his knife."

He grunted, standing up and taking her hand. "JARVIS."

"Of course Captain, have a pleasant night," the AI said, turning the tv off. Smiling, he lead Natasha to his room and shut the door. Heart pounding, he stared at the woman before him. Natasha smiled, running a hand through her loose wavy hair before grabbing the hem of the shirt and pulled it over her head. In the naked light of the city night she stood before him. Soft curves and hard muscle, the swell of her breasts tapering into her narrow waist only to swell with the curve of her hips. A dark red tangle of hair between her legs. The scar over her hip, the peaking tail of the one the Serbian gave her; the lights from the city reflecting off the other smaller ones she had collected over the years. Still, she was the Aphrodite to his Ares. Reaching out, he traced her collarbone with one finger down between the valley of her breasts, along her stomach and circled her naval. Natasha sighed, taking his wrist and leading him to the bed and flung back the sheets before sliding into them.

Wasting no time, he shucked his clothes and joined her, pulling her close. There was something sensual about the warmth of a woman between cold sheets. She kissed him, tugging him by his shoulders and he climbed on top of her, bracketing her against the bed. A shiver shuddered along his spine as she ran her hands up his biceps, along his shoulders and down his back. He kissed her, slipping his tongue into her mouth, while his hands roamed her body as he tried to memorize every minute detail about her. Every little sigh and moan she made stoked the fire in his belly. She reached between his legs, stroking him from base to tip and the pressure built with the motion of her stroking. It was impossible to stop thinking about her, the way her body fit against his, the heady scent of her hair and skin — she used his shampoo and body wash, a teasing mix of cedar and cypress and something else that was distinctly Natasha. Groaning, he rested his forehead against her shoulder, kissing her skin, sucking on it gently until she arched into it.

She moaned when he cupped her breast, stroking and teasing the nipple into a firm peak and she coaxed a moan from him when she palmed the head of his cock. "Natasha," he forced out, hips jerking as he half-bucked into her hand. A throaty laugh and he was determined to make that smug look disappear from her face. Bowing his head, he kissed her other breast, tongue licking the nipple and he sucked; the moan she rewarded him with caused him to shudder, his cock twitching in her skilled hand, while her other one tugged at his hair. It was a heady mixture of sensation — a dance of touches and teases, both giving an taking until their breathes came out in short heady gasps. He shifted downwards, hissing as the soft sheets brushed against his hard cock, and ran the tip of his nose along the curve of her hip, inhaling her scent. She shifted, bucking her hips as his fingers stroked and teased her, dipping in and out of her warm center. "Steve," she moaned, eyes dark with lusty want. "Please." Her voice soft as a butterfly's kiss. He nodded, pulling his hand away and shifting once again. Feeling her wetness at the tip of his cock, caused him to shudder and bite his lip. It took all of his concentration to not slam home, instead he did it slowly, guiding himself and her as they melded their bodies together.

The warmth, the slickness, the tightness enveloped him and a low groan escaped him and he grabbed the headboard, squeaking until the wood groaned and cracked. It felt different. In a good way like it was the physical manifestation of perfection and for a moment he stayed there, buried to the hilt in her and watching the sensations play out on her face: the twisting of her lips into an erotic smile, the panting little breathes that escaped her kiss-swollen lips and caused her chest to rise and fall, breasts brushing against his pecs. The warmth radiating from their bodies, trapped between the sheets. After a moment or two, staying still became too much. "Ready?" he asked as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She nodded and he began to move, slow deep thrusts: in and out, in and out. A push and pull of two bodies, her hips meeting his and soon they fell into a cadence and Natasha showed him the ultimate act of trust: she relinquished control and gave herself wholly over to him.

Growling, he held her close to him. Kissing every inch he could reach, keeping the steady pace of his hips, losing himself in the act of love making. The pressure building between his legs, the woman writhing and moan in his arms, his own breath coming out in short gasps and the beads of sweat trickling down his spine. The color rose in her cheeks, Russian and English tumbling from her lips and spurring him on: hips snapping forward faster and faster, chasing that rapturous bliss that awaited them both at the end. Natasha slipped one hand between them, down to where they were joined and she keened, back arching and a heartbeat or two later she came, clenching around and sending him over the edge a few seconds later.

A rush of sensations over came him; a deep groan escaped him as his hips locked into place, toes curling as he emptied himself into her. Holding Natasha was the only thing he felt capable of doing in the moment, as if her physical form anchored him to the world. Skin tingling, he nuzzled her until some semblance of clarity began to return and he pulled himself out of her. They shared lazy kisses for a few long moments, before he went to the bathroom to clean up and brought back a warm washcloth and wiped between her legs. "Thank you," she whispered as he tossed the washcloth into the hamper and joined her in bed.

"Don't mention it," he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her brow. In the afterglow, he held her, running his hands through her hair as they mumbled sweet little words to each other. Natasha was the first to drift off to sleep, her breathing evening out as she brought her knees closer to her chest. He found it endearing how she seemed to naturally revert to a fetal position for sleeping. With heavy eyelids, he watched her sleep for a few more moments before drifting off himself. That night — the first time in a long, long time — he slept in bliss, no nightmares plaguing his sleeping mind and only pleasant dreams on the horizon.

* * *

Grey dawn greeted him when he woke, Natasha still tucked into his side, her face relaxed with sleep. Stretching with a soft groan, he kissed her cheek and tucked her in as he slipped from the warmth of the bed. As soon as the cold air hit his skin, he regretted leaving the warmth of the bed. Sighing, he pulled on the shirt and pajama pants he abandoned last night and ventured from the suite. "Good morning, Captain," JARVIS said, as he stepped into the elevator and hit the button to the communal floor. "Did you have an enjoyable evening with Agent Romanoff?"

"I did," he said as the elevator sighed down to the lower floor, the doors hissed opened and he stepped out into the wide open space. Tony sat at the table. His phone in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, a tablet on at his elbow and a newspaper in front of him. "Hey Cap," he said, without so much as looking up. "Coffee's fresh. Just finished making a pot."

"How long have you been up?" he asked, walking over to the coffee pot and grabbing one of the mugs on the counter. He poured himself a cup, inhaling the heady roasted smell of coffee with a content sigh. "What are you reading?" he asked, coming to join Tony at the table. While he wasn't really good at reading upside he did notice some images from the gala last night.

"Making sure there's nothing about me in the papers," Tony said, "don't need Pep to snap at me. Not what after what happened with Danvers" — Tony took a sip of his coffee — "you know they're calling you and Red 'the cold war'."

"Huh?" He frowned, cradling his cup. "The cold war?" He wrinkled his nose. "Why?"

Tony slid his tablet over, it was opened to twitter and filtered under the word _cold war_. Images from last night of him and Natasha walking down the red carpet, dancing at the gala, sitting together at the table. People wondering if that meant he was dating her, if they were married, would this break up the Avengers. Others raged that he would even consider Natasha as a potential girlfriend (some even issued death threats towards her, saying he belonged to them alone), a few lamented that he and Natasha didn't appear to swing the other way — which made him squirm in his seat. He pushed the tablet back towards Tony. "I don't know what to say."

Tony shrugged, turning the tablet off. "There's nothing to say," he said. "Back in your day, such thoughts were private or whispered among friends and considered gossip" — Tony took another sip of coffee — "now they're called tweets and considered valid and of great importance. I've seen people — good people — have their entire lives ruined just because they tweeted an off colored joke or statement. The internet made people crazy."

He shook his head. "The internet is very helpful," he said, "having all that information at your fingertips. It's just exposed the crazy that was always there, gave it an outlet to breed and fester" — he shrugged — "but I'm an old man" — he smiled — "I don't know about all that technology stuff. It just runs off of some sort of electricity."

Tony laughed. "Well, you're not wrong," he said. They sat in silence together and Steve wondered if Howard ever sat with Tony and talked to him about stuff. Tony rarely mentioned his father and what little he said about Howard made Steve wonder what sort of man the charismatic and charming inventor ended up becoming.

"Did…" he paused, licking his lips, "did it effect him?" he asked. Tony looked up, humming his puzzlement. "My apparent death? Did it effect Howard?"

Tony sighed, setting his cup and phone down and running both hands through his hair. "I don't like talking about my dad—"

"I know, Tony and you don't —"

"— but its weird," Tony said, "I want to talk about him with you. You knew him before he became my dad, before he became the man I knew him as. A part of me feels like… you're a link I have to him. Besides the pictures and the old film reels." Tony leaned back, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. "I think it did. Peggy… whenever she came over, they would share this look. It was sad, like they were remembering something painful. I asked about it once, Dad told me to forget about it, that it doesn't concern me."

"It was about me, huh?"

Tony shrugged. "Don't know. I imagine it was, but I can't be sure." A half smile spread across his face. "All I know is that my dad never shut up about you. I always felt like you were this force I had to conquer in order for him to love me" — Tony leaned forward, pinching his thumb and index finger close to each other — "that if I was just a smidge smarter or better in someway, he would stop talking about you and tell me — just once — how much he loved me or that he was proud of me."

Steve traced the rim of his coffee cup. "I'm sure he was, Tony," he said, "Howard was a good man." Tony scoffed. Steve drained the rest of his coffee, standing up. "Nice talking with you and" — a devilish smirk spread across his face — "I'd get a hazmat suit before going into the elevator or at least have JARVIS sanitize it before you do." Tony stared at him as he walked off and he heard the inventor shout for JARVIS as he stepped into the elevator.

* * *

When he returned to his room, he noticed that Natasha had thrown the SSR shirt he gave her on and was also wearing a pair of his lounge pants. The pants didn't fit her well, as she had tied it tight around her waist and folded the waistband down a few times to keep them from falling. She was on the phone with someone. "Here he is," she said, trotting over to him, and shoved the phone into his hand. "It's Peggy's nursing home," she whispered as he brought it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked, wondering why Peggy's nursing home was calling him over all people. The grey of the morning began to fade into a pale golden orange with hints of pink at the edges of the horizon. A woman on the other end introduced herself as a secretary of the nursing home, how he was listed as an emergency contact for Peggy Carter. The woman asked about Sharon and he informed her that Sharon had left the country due to her job — which he couldn't discuss as it involved national security. The secretary hummed, keys click-clacking in the background, and asked if he would be willing to come down and visit Peggy, implying the sooner the better. He said he would and hung up. "That… was odd." He stared at his phone.

"What did they want?" Natasha asked. He stroked the image on the phone, a generic stock photo of New York. "Steve?"

"Who's Rose?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> Finally, the sex!
> 
> Also Carol's pov for some of the chapter. Next chapter should be interesting. 
> 
> Go watch the Blacklist. It's on Netflix.
> 
> Tootles. 
> 
> xoxoxo


	13. A Waltz for Dead Soldiers

Natasha woke up when Steve tucked her in; acknowledging his sweetness with a pleasant little curve of her lips. As soon as he left, she stretched with a sigh, luxuriating in the pocket of warmth between the sheets, his scent — cedar and cypress, leather and sweat and lime — lingering in the fabric that enveloped her. A soft hum escaped her, the soreness between her legs a welcomed discomfort. For a moment, she forgot her troubles, forgot her cares and sunk into a blissful stupor with the grey gloaming of dawn seeping into the room. If she could stop time, she would love living in this moment forever.

Giggling, she rolled about in the sheets remembering how Steve held her, peppered her neck and shoulder with soft kisses until he fell asleep. The feeling of being protected by his strength and love — the blissful dreamless sleep that followed. Her smile grew; she could get used to such a life. Steve's side was still warm and his scent heady; she buried his nose into his pillow, drinking deeply of his lingering essence. Sleep tugged at her, coaxing her back towards Morpheus's embrace. She closed her eyes. A sharp buzzing sound broke the sweet silence. It vibrated — loud and annoying — on Steve's bedside table, next to the pictures he kept there. Frowning, Natasha pulled his pillow over her head to try and block out the sound. The phone silenced for a few seconds before returning to that insistent buzzing. It got worse when the phone seemed to bump against something metallic.

"Shit." Groaning, she pulled Steve's pillow off her face and sat up, grabbing his phone — which was vibrating against his compass — and answered it. "Hello?" she reached out and grabbed his compass too — out of a curiosity to see what was inside, she would later tell herself.

"Hi, this is Lily calling from Fairflowers Nursing Home and Elder Care, may I speak to a Mr. Rogers, Steven?" the pleasant voice of a young woman said on the other end. Natasha frowned, wondering why a nursing home was calling Steve in the first place.

Digging her nail into the seam of the compass, she popped it open. Steve took good care of the compass, the hinges opened with well oiled smoothness, the glass over the directional rose clear and staring back at her in the lid was a faded newspaper clipping of Peggy Carter. "Uh… why?" Natasha asked. It wasn't her most elegant response. Surely, seeing Peggy's picture in the compass shouldn't have come as a shock — it was an old memento from WWII that he kept, one of the few things from his life before the ice that still meant something to him. Still, her heart panged with insecurity and the overwhelming need to _compete_ with Peggy Carter swelled in her chest. Why would Steve even want to be with someone like her: a killer, an assassin, an ex-KGB spy. Her ledger was saturated with blood, and she wasn't a naïf to believe he didn't at least peruse the Shield files she dumped online during the Project: Insight Incident. Peggy — though an old woman now — was everything she wasn't. Someone that only killed when necessary, that valued life, that had a good heart — morals.

"Mr. Rogers has been listed as an emergency contact for Peggy," Lily said, snapping Natasha from her gloomy thoughts. In the distance the door to the suite hissed open. With cat-like grace, Natasha rose from the bed — abandoning the compass on the there — and went to meet Steve in the living room. "Ma'am?"

"Here is he," she said, trotting over to him and shoving the phone into his hand. A confused look crossed his face. "It's Peggy's nursing home," she whispered as she watched him bring the phone to his ear and greet the secretary on the other end. Natasha watched him, holding her elbows as the grey of the morning began to fade into pale golden orange and pink. The lights of the city began to wink out one by one. A part of her hoped Peggy was okay, she didn't want Steve to suffer — not now, not when so many things were happening — like Stephanie threatening Audrey and bringing up Rose. The woman even threatened Peggy and for a moment Natasha had glimpsed something dark buried deep within Steve. Again, she was no naïf and understood that everyone had a darkness to them — or maybe she was naïve and hoped that Steve was an exception to that rule. That there was only light in him and he would always be above the primal inhumanity of the human creature.

"That… was odd," he said, staring at the phone in his hand before turning it off. She hummed, arching a brow as she turned to face him. The flummoxed expression deepening, another shade of emotion joining it — the cogs in his head whirling.

"What did they want?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light. The slimy secrets she kept from him — Barnes, her past — oozed along her skin and it was only thanks to her training that she didn't physically react to the sensation. He was silent for far longer than she would have expected for him to phrase an answer to her question. "Steve?" she prompted.

"Who's Rose?"

It felt like falling through thin ice, the frigid water engulfing her. Swallowing she tried to force the memories away: the tiny baby with grey skin and blue lips, her hot tears on her cheeks as she screamed for her daughter to wake — to take a breath — and the guilt in her heart knowing that she had killed her own child. For what other explanation was there? Rose was pink and healthy and _alive_ when she went to sleep and when she woke her precious baby was grey and blue and _dead_. "Please," she whispered, turning her back to him and walking over to the kitchen table. She needed to ground herself in the here and now. Gripping the table's edge she took several deep breaths, skin prickling as unwanted memories of sadistic men with cruel hands manhandled her into a concrete cell — no windows and only a door, a hole for piss and shit — and left her there in her nightgown, weak from giving birth and running for her life to either live or die, they didn't care. Madame B's thin gnarly fingers grabbing her cheeks: _Vy byli neposlushnoy devushkoy, Natalia._ The Headmistress lifting her chin and staring at her with eyes colder than a Russian winter: _Vashe nakazaniye dolzhno sootvetstvovat' vashemu prestupleniyu. Tak chto eto nikogda ne povtoritsya._ That evening she was led — broken both in mind and spirit — to Lyudmila's lab to receive her punishment.

The cheery jingle of her phone felt cacophonous and loud in the pregnant silence between her and Steve. He was closer to her discarded clothes from last night and found her clutch among the tangle of fabric that was her dress on the floor. He tossed the sleek black square to her and she grabbed it. Hill's caller ID flashed back at her. She swiped up. "Yes?"

"Come to Sands Point now" — there was a pause — "come alone."

"Why? What's going on?" she asked, dread coiling in her stomach. Why was Hill calling? Did Fury want to talk to her? Did someone involve with Project: Insight slip the noose and he needed her to track the person down? And why exclude Steve? Sure, he wasn't the best spy (a terrible liar really) but he was handy in a pinch and a great cover story.

"Everything will be explained when you get here. See you in twenty." The other end of the line went dead and she stared at her phone with a frown. She could feel Steve's gaze boring holes into her back, the frustration rippling off him like tiny waves in the tide pools — she knew he hated it when she avoided his questions.

"Who was that?"

"Hill."

"And?"

She turned, noting that he had folded his arms over his chest. She blinked. "I have to go." She gathered up her clothes, heading to the door. Steve stepped in front of her. "Move."

"Not until you answer one question—"

"Rose is someone you don't need to know about, and I don't know what Hill wants." She scowled. "Happy?"

His shoulders slumped. "Natasha" — he reached for her, but she brushed his hand aside and stepped around him — "don't be like this. Don't shut me out. Especially after last night, please."

Her throat constricted as she stopped in front of the door. "You're going down to D.C.?" she asked. Of course, he was. There was no point in the question.

"Around eight."

"Okay, I'll be back by then." The door hissed open, yet Steve reached out and grabbed her wrist. For someone with so much strength, his grip was queerly gentle — his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her wrist. "Steve…"

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean… mean to bring up anything painful." Guilt shone in his eyes and it tugged at her heartstrings. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, smiling sadly at him.

"But you did," she said, her voice soft as she cupped his cheek, tracing his cheekbone with her thumb. "You did." She pulled her hand away and with a graceful turn, walked out of the suite.

* * *

Thankfully, it was still rather early in the morning, meaning the drive from Manhattan to Sand Point, Long Island wasn't too terrible — plus she always saw speed limits as something of a suggestion that a hard and fast rule. Her sleek corvette growled along the sleepy roads of the high end neighborhood with ocean front property, the houses built to a grandiose scale: tall bay windows, two or more floors, with Grecian columns or Victorian style roofs and professionally manicured lawns. Every piece of property oozed wealth and opulence and power. These people never knew a hard day's work, if they ever ran across a problem they threw money at it until it went away. Tony's people — as much as he wanted to divorce himself from this sort of ilk, she knew he secretly reveled in such avarice.

The GPS on her phone her told her that the destination was on her left and she pulled into a grand circular driveway with a fountain in the heart. The fountain was winterized for the season but the lights still illuminated the naked angels and cherubs. A sleek black car was parked in front of the garage. She pulled up besides it, stepping out of her corvette; gravel crunched beneath her shoes and she could hear the obnoxious cry of gulls stirring in the morning sea breeze. It was nice. Hill walked towards her, wearing jeans and a cream blouse and a black leather jacket, her dark hair pulled back into a serious bun. "Wondering when you would show up."

"What are you doing here?" She hugged Hill. "Why are we here? Who's house is this?" She gestured to the ridiculously fancy building to their left. Hill shrugged, slipping her thin hands into the tight pockets of her jeans.

"Dunno. We're just borrowing it for the moment. Family's outta town so" — she gave Natasha a devilish grin — "why not. Red borrowed houses before, got the idea from him." Natasha furrowed her brows. Hill rolled her eyes as she walked towards the front door, beckoning her to follow with a wave. "You really need to watch _The Blacklist_ , the second season started in September. I recorded the first, you can still catch up."

"Sorry," Natasha said, following Hill into the luxurious house. "But from what you've told me about this show — I rather not watch Hollywood attempt to weave a yarn about what it means to be a spy."

Hill shook her head. "You're missing out girl. Seriously." Hill shut the door and Natasha looked around the place. Gilded frames and furniture wrought from expensive wood dotted the hallway and rooms. "Have you heard from Sam?"

"Am I supposed to?" She arched a brow. There was a family photo hanging on the wall: the husband, a fit man in a suit with tasteful grey hair. His wife had a forced smile — too many Botox injections in her face and an awful fake tan — was at his right shoulder. Sitting in front of them were their children. A sour face son — lean and lanky in his youth — and a daughter, with long golden hair and crystal blue eyes that screamed queen bee at her local prep school. Cold, calculating, people used to what money and power could achieve. These type of people made Natasha sick. These sort of people controlled her life for so long.

Hill shrugged, heading up the stairs. "No. Just thought you might've." Natasha followed her, not bothering to take her shoes off or that she left bits of mud on the plush runner. The upstairs was beautiful, not as opulent as the downstairs and she presumed this was where the family spent most of their private time. Hill lead her to the master bedroom. A large spacious room with a balcony that over looked the sea. It must be beautiful in the summer, with the cool breeze fluttering the gauzy currents, chasing away the stuffy heat of New York. For a moment, she could see herself standing on that balcony in a satin nightgown, the breeze tickling her legs and Steve's arms wrapped around her waist. The two of them watching the sunset light up the deep sapphire of the ocean. No words needed to be spoken between them: just their love, the sound of gulls, wind and surf.

"Natasha." A man's voice broke the pleasant daydream and with his back towards the rising sun stood a man she thought two years dead. "Good to see you." He smiled. Throat tight, tears burning hot against the corner of her eyes, she marched right up to him and slapped him. He accepted the slap graciously, nodding his head. "I deserved that."

"Yeah." She bit her lip. "You did." Then she hugged him, sniffling into her shoulder. "Oh God… Phil… I thought you were dead."

Coulson relaxed, wrapping his arms around her and smoothing her hair. "It's okay, Natasha. It's okay." He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "God, when Fury told me about what happened — Shield infected by Hydra, Project Insight, the missile strike on Camp Lehigh — I thought I lost you, Natasha. I thought I lost you." Natasha held him tight, afraid that if she let him go he'll disappear — like so many before had done in her life. "I wish I could've helped, but — but I'm here now."

"He's doing more than just 'helping'," Hill said, a snarky lilt to her voice, "he's rebuilding Shield and Fury anointed him the new Director."

"Heh, always knew it would be you that would succeed Fury. Clint owes me a hundred bucks" — she glanced at Hill — "he put his money on you." Hill laughed at that. Natasha pulled away, staring at him. Coulson looked just like she remembered: balding, with a clean shaven jaw that reminded her of the upper crust of British society, wearing a charcoal grey suit. There was a kindness in his eyes, warmth in his smile. Still, instincts told her there was something off about him, something different — alien. "How?" she asked, as he took her hands and lead her to a plush chair. "We… Fury saw your body. He told us you were dead. Showed us your bloodied trading cards."

"Bloodied trading cards?" Coulson frowned. "I had them in my locker…" he trailed off, eyes widening when the puzzle pieces slotted together. "That son of a bitch," he muttered. Natasha laughed a little, wiping her eyes. "Those were original mint condition trading cards!"

"I know," she said, patting his hand. "I remember all the stuffy auction houses and little pawn shops in all those depressing small Midwestern towns you dragged me to. I remember helping you track down some of the rarer cards." She grinned. "Guess we're even now."

Coulson rubbed his brow. "I never got Rogers to sign them."

"That's okay." She gave a nonchalant shrug. "Steve and I spent a year tracking down another set. He dragged me all over the country — even to Alaska — to replace your collection. Signed each and every last one of them." She smiled. "He'll be so happy to see you. We all would. Even Carol."

"Carol?" Coulson frowned, then his eyes widened. "Captain Marvel" — Natasha nodded — "Fury told me about her. Said she helped stop an alien invasion. He always said that if shit ever hit the fan he knew who to call."

"Well he called her. She has a flair for the dramatics, coming in at the last minute to save Tony from falling to his death." She smiled. Carol shooting out of the rapidly closing wormhole to scoop Tony out of the air, carrying him back down to the ground, Thor tearing Tony's mask off and Hulk roaring at him, which caused him to jerk awake. Tony had asked if they had won, and she remembered Steve's smile — that half curve of his lips, showing off some teeth; the disbelief in his eyes that they fought an alien army from outer space — and confirming that: yes, they had won.

"Sorry I missed it," he said. "And sorry I wasn't there to help with Project Insight. Fury told me what happened. All of it. I'm sorry about Barnes."

She shook her head. "It's Steve you should be apologizing to. I think it hurt him more than it did me." The sun had climbed high enough in the sky that it glittered upon the water, the gulls hopped along the shore or bobbed in the surf. There was something peaceful about the water, a tranquility that drew her towards it's frigid depths. As a girl, the Red Room would make them bathe in the freezing lake during the winter. They would break the ice, jump in until fully submerged and then crawl out — naked — and head back to the compound. A way to cull the weak. Even now, she found herself taking ice baths from time to time. "I'm used to seeing regimes rise and fall every day" — a blithe half smile spread across her lips — "I'm Russian" — a shrug — "or I was." She didn't know what she was now. American didn't really fit — even though she was a naturalized citizen — and it had been so long since she actually thought of herself as _Russian_. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"I've been tracking someone," he said, "contacted Hill and she insisted that we meet. Said you needed to know, that you could keep the secret." Coulson made a face. "And there's something else."

"Why not call Clint?" Natasha frowned. "What else? I don't like it when you take that tone with me Phil."

"You know Clint," Coulson said, "he's not that good at keeping secrets." She chuckled. "No, I wanted to keep the circle small. I have my own team. We're helping Fury track the rats that didn't go down with the ship. It's like playing whack-a-mole with these assholes. There's things only me and my team can do, and there are things only the Avengers can do," he said. "It's better this way." He paused, smoothing his tie — a nervous habit — "Loki' scepter is missing. We don't know where it is. We're trying to track but so far nothing."

"Compartmentalization" — she nodded — "Nobody spills all the secrets because nobody knows all the secrets. Fury taught me that — and Steve." She glanced at her watch. "Should I be worried? Should I tell Steve?"

"No." Coulson shook his head. "Not yet. We're tracking down a possible lead. If there's something — we'll get word to the Avengers, don't worry."

Natasha nodded. Coulson never lead her astray before; he was one of the few people she could say she trusted wholeheartedly. "Audrey's okay?"

"Audrey is safe. I made arrangements for her protection." Coulson smiled. "Why?"

Natasha shrugged as she stood up. "Just making sure. She knows about" — he shook his head — "Oh, Phil" — her shoulders slumped — "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah" — Coulson looked out towards the ocean, a melancholic expression on his face — "it's better this way though. Safer."

Natasha nodded. She understood what he meant. "Well, I have to get back to the tower. Steve wants to head down to DC, something came about involving Peggy's nursing home and he seemed antsy about it." She hugged Coulson one more time. "I'll give Hill the cards and she can pass them along to you."

"Thank you Natasha," Coulson said. "Take care, stay safe."

"You too," she said and let him go. She nodded to Hill, leaving the master bedroom. Once outside she sighed, staring up at the grey November sky. She pulled out her phone, scrolled through her contacts and walked to her corvette while she listened to the dial tone. Nobody answered and she kept calling several times as she wend her way through the sleepy sea side neighborhood and back into the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. The first wave of morning traffic slowed her progress and by that time someone picked up on the other end of the line.

"What?" asked the gruff masculine voice. Natasha rolled her eyes as she wove in and out of traffic, honking her horn and flipping people off and yelling vulgarities in a variety of languages that would make even the saltiest sailor blush. "Are you mad at me?"

"Yes," she said. "You need to tell him."

"Did he find out?"

"No, but he will. And I" — she paused, not sure what she wanted. Biting her lip, she pressed down on the gas, the tires squealed as she rocketed into motion and through the intersection split seconds before the light turned red. — "I'm going to be caught in the middle and you know him. He's not going to blame you for any of this, but he _is_ going to blame me."

A gravely sigh came through the other end. "It's better this way. He doesn't need me. Not since the serum.

"Bullshit." She slammed on the breaks as a big semi-truck lumbered long. Allowing these hulking big rigs into city streets should really be illegal. "You didn't see how _broken_ he was when he found out you were alive. It was like he was blaming himself for that accident all over again."

"Natalia —"

"No James," she said, "you need to tell him. Please. I'll get you out of the country, but you have to tell him the truth." She pressed her foot on the gas, her corvette responding instantly to the command. The only answer she got was a dee-doomp, singling that Bucky had hung up. She sighed and wondered if telling Steve the truth on the way to DC was a good idea or not.

* * *

It had been two hours since they left New York and she still found it amusing that Steve was excited about driving her car. It was the first time today that she saw him happy. "You know you can go faster," she said, lifting her feet to place them on the dash, he glared at her.

"Take your feet off the dash," he said.

She shrugged. "My car, I can do what I want." She arched a brow, daring him to challenge her. "If I told you I have an eject button, would you believe me?"

He laughed, passing an old beat up Volkswagen. "Yeah," he said. "That seems like something you'd have installed." He smiled at her. "Still, feet off the dash."

"Fine _dad_ ," she said, taking her feet off the dash.

Steve laughed. "If that's how you characterize me" — he gave her a pointed look — "then you should stop slouching otherwise you'll get a hunched back."

"Bozhe moy!" she laughed, hiding her face in her hands, though she did sit up a bit straighter. The skyscrapers from the distant cities and the trees closer to the freeway zipped by; vehicles of all shapes and sizes trundled along the freeway towards various destinations. It was peaceful in a way. The hum of the engine, the hissing sigh of the tires, the scenery going by, the low dulcet sounds from the radio Steve had tuned to a station that played hits from his generation. She wondered what it was like before all the urbanization happened, when it was just trees and a few ragtag settlements dotting the land, before Europeans came. Pristine? Untouched? Neither word sounded right for what she imagined. Steve chuckled; she smiled. "Brings back memories, huh?"

"Yeah, that it does," he said. "Not too long ago."

"No." She smiled, remembering how they drove to New Jersey only to find out that Shield had been infected by Hydra. That Steve seemed to have died for nothing. "You ever thought about having kids?" she asked after another bout of uncomfortable silence. It was an odd question to be asking him — he knew about her sterilization — and he never mentioned his own wants, hopes and dreams. Almost like he dared not to have any incase his life took a drastic unexpected turn. Steve twisted his hand on the leather steering wheel, the material creaking beneath his grip.

"Nat," he said, "if you ever want to adopt, I'm all for it. No matter what you decide, I want you to know that I'll always support you" — he shot her a cheeky grin — "unless you require me to help hide a body. You're on your own in that regard."

She laughed, patted his bicep. "Thanks," she said, "that narrows down the people that I can call when I commit murder."

"Good" — he swallowed — "I think."

"No, seriously, Steve," she said, "ever thought about having kids? A little Steve Rogers, Jr. running around?"

He shuddered. "I'm not naming my son after me. Do you know how many people I knew that were a junior or a third? It was like all the parents of my generation were unimaginative in their naming conventions. All the girls were either named after their grandmothers or flowers and all the boys were named after their fathers."

"That bad huh?"

"It was the 20s," he said with a shrug. "But I don't know Nat," he said, flicking the blinker and getting into the proper lane to take the upcoming exit. "I never gave it much thought. Why? What brought this up?"

A shrug. "Just wondering if you ever thought about a life after Captain America." She picked at some gunk beneath her nail. "Wondering what that life looked like."

"I mean, sure — I had ideas about what a life with Peggy would look like after the war" — he sighed — "I was a different man before the ice and I'm not so sure that — _now_ with everything going on in the world — that there'll ever be an after Captain America."

Her throat tightened and she slipped her hands between her thighs. Right, of course he would want a quintessential American life with Peggy Carter. Peggy would've been able to give him that: a home, a family. While she was nothing more than a broken Russian spy unable to have children, let alone make a house into a home. "Yeah."

Steve didn't say anything, just took her hand in his hand held it, stroking the back of it with his thumb. The remainder of the drive lapsed into this uncannily comfortable silence. The government buildings and monuments of the American capital came into view. It brought back memories: dragging Steve along the streets to get him adjusted to the new century, hot summer days spent in his apartment drinking cold beer and eating pizza, getting him to fix her air conditioner even though he probably figured out she had just flipped the breaker for it off. Getting a Christmas tree, going to Midnight Mass. Taking him to see Peggy once.

It was late morning — almost lunch time — by the time they made it to Peggy's nursing home. The parking lot looked emptier than normal and she wondered if the seniors in the home's care ever had any family visit them. "You know, I bet if you parked in the handicap space, nobody's gonna say anything. You're what? Ninety-eight?"

He scowled at her, parking in the shade at one of the farthest corners from the door. "Ninety-six." He turned the car off and pocketed her keys. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he cheekily pecked her lips. "Make me give them back."

"It's not good to leave the elderly in a hot car," she said, smoothly getting out, smiling as he laughed. They closed their respected doors and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close as they walked into the nursing home. It was warm — almost stuffy — inside. Abstract art hung on the cream colored walls, little end tables with fake plants beneath each piece of art. To her right was a large communal area, where residents and their guests could visit, to her left was a long hallway that lead to the seniors' quarters. In front of them was a middle aged man with a thick gut and no neck to speak of; wispy greying hair covered his round head and he looked unhappy standing there in his cheap grey suit.

"I don't see why I have to pay for this," he groused to the peach-faced secretary. "My cousin takes care of the bills for this place."

"I know Mr. Sousa," the secretary said, "but we haven't been able to reach Miss Carter for a while now and the bills need to get paid. The advance payment she made a few months ago has been used up."

The man rolled his eyes, shot them a glare over his shoulder and fished out his checkbook. "Ever since my dad died, she's been nothing but trouble" — he furiously wrote a check — "nine thousand dollars to keep her in this place. Nine thousand dollars!"

"Mr. Sousa —"

"And what does she do? Absolutely nothing" — he sat his pen down with a sharp clack — "just lays in bed rambling about my father and Captain America" — he tore the check out from the checkbook — "bah!" — he handed the check over to the secretary — "I wish she would just hurry up and die already. Old broad is costing a fortune to keep!"

Natasha felt Steve tense besides her when they both realized the man in question was talking about Peggy. Fortunately (or unfortunately) she reacted quicker, grabbing the pudgy man by the collar of his suit and slamming him against the wall, knocking over an end table and dumping one of the fake plants; the picture overhead shuddered askew. "Hi," she said, smiling sweetly at the pink face man.

"Wha— what do you want? Don't hurt me!" he squeaked, sweat beading at his brow. She patted his cheek, clicking her tongue in a soothing maternal manner.

"Tut-tut," she said, "I'm not going to hurt you" — she gave him a predator's grin — "yet" — he gulped — "I want you to show some respect to your mother. If it wasn't for Director Carter and Captain America" — she smiled and nodded at Steve, watching as the man's eyes followed her gaze; the sound of his pathetic whimper never sounded so sweet — "you would be working in a Hydra camp."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he blubbered, trying to squirm from her grasp. She curled her hand into a fist, but Steve's gentle touch on her shoulder stopped her. She cocked a brow at him.

"Don't hurt him Nat," he said, "he's scum" — a pained grimace passed across his face, almost as if he couldn't believe one of Peggy's children could be a rotten person — "but I rather not have Pepper demanding our heads because we caused another lawsuit."

"Fine." She let Mr. Sousa go, but looped her arm through his before he could scuttle away. "I'll escort —" she paused, looking at the quaking man at her side.

"Mike." He licked his lips. "Mike Sousa."

"Mike to his car," she said. She gave him a tug and lead him out of the lobby and into the parking lot. The sun glinted off the windshields and hoods of the sleek cars in the parking lot. She elbowed Mike and he made a cat like yowl and lead her to a beat-up silver car, the black leather seats had duct tape here and there in a poor man's attempt at mending them into serviceability. He got in and she watched him buckle up. Yet, before he could put the key into the ignition, she grabbed his hand.

"What do you want? I don't know where my sister is," he said, "don't hurt Vivian, please. She's ditzy."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested in your sister," she said, "what I want you to do is to visit your mother every Sunday for the rest of her life. If you miss a Sunday, you are to come the next day you are physically able to. And bring her flowers every time you visit" — she smiled — "I hear she likes violets" — she let go of his wrist — "and I will know if you don't. I have some friends that would very much like to meet you."

"Okay, okay, I'll do it. I'll do it, just don't kill me!" he said, and inserted the key into the ignition. The car rumbled to life and Natasha closed the door with a viperish smile, watching him peel out of the parking lot. Dusting her hands, she walked back into the nursing home and found Steve at the counter, hunched over paperwork. She went up to him, placing her hand between his shoulder blades and feeling how tense his muscles were. She skimmed the paperwork he was filling out, noting his bank account number and routing number, the allotted sums to be withdrawn every month on the fifteenth. At the bottom he signed his name and handed the paper back to the secretary.

"Now Sharon doesn't have to worry," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Peggy's taken care of until… until…" he sniffed, rubbing his nose. "Can we go see her?" he asked. The secretary nodded, picked up the phone and called for one of the nurses to come and escort them back to Peggy's room.

"She's going to be happy to see you," the nurse said as he walked up to them. "Felix." He offered his hand and Steve shook it, a sad look in his eyes. "Good news is she's been lucid today. Guess the medicine is doing its job." Felix lead them down the hall and around a corner to a door left ajar in the middle of the wing. "I'll let you guys have all the time you want. Ms. Carter doesn't get a lot of visitors."

That's sad, Natasha thought as she followed Steve into the room. It was bare, with the same cream colored walls and abstract art hanging on the walls. The carpet was a shade of blue that reminded her of the ocean throwing up. Peggy's bed was tucked into one corner, and Natasha had never seen someone look so small and shriveled, as if the sun had dried them out into a withered old husk. Steve lead her to Peggy's bedside. Natasha had only seen pictures of Peggy Carter as a young woman. Thick brown tresses, a fierce determination in her kind eyes and a smile of a woman with intelligence and ambition. Seeing her laying in a hospital bed, dying from Alzheimer's — there was a start contrast between the two. It must've been harder for Steve — still trying to wrap his head around that the woman he remembers from (to him) a few years ago was the same woman lying in the bed. "Peggy," he said, leaving her side to sit in a chair at Peggy's bedside. "Hey. How are you?"

"I'm alright," she said, grabbing her hand with gnarled fingers. "I see you brought someone with you today." Peggy smiled at Natasha. "Where are your bloody manners, Steve, introduce us." Natasha had a sneaky feeling that Peggy already knew who she was.

Steve laughed. "Yes, ma'am," he said and beckoned her over and she came to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. "This is Natasha… my best girl." His cheeks tinting pink. Peggy chuckled, a wide smile spreading across her wrinkly old face.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Natasha said, taking Peggy's hand in hers and patting it with the other. "Steve's told me a lot about you."

"Has he now?" Peggy snorted. "Well, I'll tell you something" — Peggy grunted as she sat up, leaning closer to Natasha — "he's always been rather dramatic."

She laughed. "I'm right here," Steve said, which only caused her to laugh harder. "Why do I bother?" He ran his hand through his hair and she patted his stomach. He smiled, taking her hand in his. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Peggy's approving nod — like an elderly grandmother sanctifying her grandson's choice in wife. "I have a feeling that I'm gonna get bullied by you two no matter what I say."

"See" — Peggy gestured to Steve — "always so dramatic."

"It's not bullying, lyubimiy," she said, "it's affectionate teasing." She smiled when he kissed the top of her head.

"Whatever it is, I think I'm on the losing end of it," he said as the door opened. Felix poked his head in. "Is there something wrong?" Steve asked, looking at the nurse.

"Mr. Rogers, can you come with me please? There's just a few more details we need to work out," Felix said. Steve nodded and gave her another kiss on the cheek.

"I'll be back Peggy," he said, smoothing Peggy's silvery hair. The old woman smiled, they watched him leave with Felix and Natasha sat in the chair beside her bed. It felt awkward being in the room alone with Peggy, knowing that this was the woman Steve had hoped to spend the rest of his life with, but thanks to a cruel twist of fate was unable to.

"Help me up," Peggy said, "I want to take a walk with you in the garden. Steve doesn't like it when I go outside" — Peggy huffed as she forced her frail old body into a sitting position. Natasha helped her, one hand on her arm and the other between her shoulders — "he frets too much. Seeing me so infirm probably brings back memories for him before Project Rebirth."

"Maybe," she said, looking around for Peggy's slippers and slipped them onto her feet. Despite her advance age, Peggy's grip on her arm was strong and firm, and she helped the old woman out of bed and they walked to the door and out into the garden. Outside the weather was still a tad warm yet the chill of winter was ever present, the garden — once vibrant and colorful — had now faded to brown and grey-green. The grass still stubbornly clung to its greenness, and they walked to a bench where late season flowers still bloomed. "I bet it's lovely during the summer."

"It is, Anna — my old nurse — used to take me out every morning and evening, so I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face," Peggy said, her brown eyes misting with tears. "I'm dying Natalia. I know it, Steve's knows it… I've lived a wonderful life but there are still so many things I regret. When you get to my age — people will tell you not look back, there's nothing in the past but regrets. Look to the future, that's where everything lies" — Peggy sighed, and sat down on the bench. Natasha did too, holding her old hand — "but when you get to my age, all you ever do is look back and regret, because there's only death to look forward to and nobody truly wants to die."

Natasha swallowed, not sure what to say to that. "I'm sure Steve understands," she said, "he's… he's always looking back."

"Is he?" Peggy gave her a coy smile, "I see the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you, Natalia. You're in love with each other."

"Well, I don't… maybe," she said, wishing that she had better control over herself as she felt her cheeks grow hot. Normally she would never betray herself like this, but with Peggy she felt like there was nothing that could slip pass the astute old woman.

Peggy chuckled, patting her hand. "Just promise me to take care of Steve when I'm gone," she said.

"I will," she said. It was the easiest promise she ever made. In her heart she knew that no matter what happened, she would remain by Steve's side, following him wherever he went: as a partner, as a friend and — hopefully — as his lover. "But, Director Carter—"

"Peggy," she said, "call me Peggy. I haven't been Director Carter in years."

"Alright," Natasha said, "how do you know my birth name, Peggy?"

A cold breeze blew through the garden, Peggy shivered and she took off her jacket and wrapped it around the old woman's shoulders. Peggy smiled, pulling the jacket tighter around her frail shoulders. "We tried to save you," she said, her voice soft and distant. "From the Red Room. I'm sorry we didn't make it in time to save you both." Peggy cupped her cheek. "You poor girl."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you're talking about," Natasha said, flummoxed at the statement. Why would Peggy apologize to her? As far as she knew, when she was brought to Shield, Peggy had long since retired.

"Back in 2000 we heard rumors of a young woman trying to defect from the Red Room. I had retired by then but Fury" — she sighed — "he contacted me about it, since I've had past dealings with the Red Room. I agreed to help — retirement didn't suit me dear, I was bored out of my bloody mind. We had followed up on all the leads, most of them dead ends, but one led us to a small cottage near the Ostroh Valley" — Peggy closed her eyes — "we got there too late. I'm sorry Natalia. I'm so sorry."

Natasha let out a shaky breath, the crucible of the journey from the main base of the Red Room in Siberia to the relative safety of Ukraine's Ostroh Valley. A difficult journey during any circumstances — more so since she was pregnant and racing the clock and the Red Room's agents that were hunting both her and Nikolai and their handful of trusted allies. "I'm sorry too… I was so sloppy," she said, shaking her head.

"Don't blame yourself, dear," Peggy said, "you were a scared young woman that was pregnant. You shouldn't feel sorry." Peggy pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Go to this place. Everything we found out about you is there. I hope it sheds some light on your past."

Natasha took the paper, smoothing it out to see Peggy's once beautiful handwriting and the Shield logo in the bottom right hand corner. "Okay," she said, "thank you."

Peggy smiled. "You are who you are today because of the hardships you endured. Strong, beautiful and in love." She leaned against Natasha. "It's all I ever wanted for you… and Dottie."

"Steve's a good man," she said, looking up at the blue November sky. It was a nice day despite the time of year and she felt content. A feeling she can't remember ever feeling. Not with Nikolai, Alexi, Buck or even Matt. She figured that the men before Steve — she cared about them yes, maybe even loved them — but Steve was special, different. She knew it in the marrow of her bones, as if the gods had forged their souls from a single glowing spark, destined to be reunited at some point in time — forever and always, until the end of time.

"He still doesn't know a bloody thing about women, does he?" Peggy asked, a crooked smile on her lips. "The first time he and I were alone together for any extended period of time, he started babbling. Called me a dame and then back peddled, thinking he had offended my sensibilities." Peggy laughed. "When I asked him if he ever talked to a woman before he told me that our conversation was the longest he ever had with one." A melancholic smile spread across her face.

"No," she said, and looked over her shoulder to see Steve heading towards them. She waved him over. "He's still a moron when it comes to women."

Peggy laughed again, but it turned into a coughing fit and Steve sprinted the last few feet over to them. "Peggy?" he said, grabbing her shoulders and looking at Felix who was also coming towards them at a quick trot. "Peggy, it's me Steve," he said. "Deep breaths Peg, deep breaths."

Peggy took in several shaky breaths, before her eyes focused once more on Steve's face. It was like a switch turning off. Shock and disbelief filled her eyes as she gasped in surprised. "Steve?" she whispered, and his face fell and Natasha knew that Peggy had relapsed, whatever lucidity she had moments ago, gone. "Steve… you're alive."

"Yeah," he said, a weak smile on his face as pain clouded his eyes. "Yeah, Peggy." He swallowed as he helped her up, Felix taking her by her arm.

"It's been so long… so long," Peggy said, swaying and Steve held her close, smoothing her hair. "So long."

"Well, I couldn't leave my best girl," he said, looking down at her, "not when she owes me a dance."

"C'mon Ms. Carter," Felix said, as he slipped Natasha's coat off Peggy's shoulders and handing it to Steve, "let's get you back into bed for your nap." Felix lead Peggy away, as she rambled on about Howard and Steve and how she shot at Captain American to test his shield. Natasha rubbed Steve's arm, slipping the little piece of paper into her pocket. He handed her back her coat.

"It… She's taken care of," he said, running a hand along his jaw. "Sharon doesn't have to worry about a thing."

"Steve…" Natasha wished there was something to say, something that she could do to comfort him. There wasn't any. Fate was a cruel mistress they were all subjected to, and for whatever reason Fate had deemed this right for him. To remain young and displaced from his own time, forced to watch those he loved and cared about grow old and die or be defiled by the evils of the world. Not even Atlas was strong enough to bare the burden resting on Steve's shoulders, a cross heavier than the one Christ dragged through the streets.

"I uh… Do you need to get anything from your apartment? Since we're here." He tried to smile for her, but it came off weak and forced. She shook her head, having cleaned out the little apartment she had down here months ago before she went to find a new cover.

"I have everything I need. My — well it's technically yours — t-shirt and my car." She tucked some hair behind her ear. "I brought my blanket and books up to New York after Project Insight. I've learned to keep material things to a minimum. Helps with moving."

"Okay, I'm… I'm going to visit some other people, why don't we meet at Sam's? I can walk, so" — he dug into his pocket and pulled out her keys — "here you go." He dropped them into her awaiting hand and walked off, leaving her in the garden. She watched him, her heart breaking for the pain he had to endure. Being a man out of time was different than being a woman without a place — the sadness and pain however, hurt all the same. Sighing, Natasha left the little garden of the nursing home and made her solemn to her car.

* * *

If the lonely guard at the storage unit facility was surprised to see her, he didn't say. Upon showing him the crumpled piece of paper Peggy had given her, the man gave her a small key and directed her to the storage unit. Natasha walked along the narrow rows of storage units, looking for the matching number that was attached to the key's ring. Finding it, she unlocked the padlock and lifted the garage door up. It was mostly empty, save for a few boxes marked _Steve Rogers_. Curious, Natasha pulled them down and riffled through them. A stack of love letters he and Peggy exchanged during the war. Old sketch books he doodled in — images of Peggy, Bucky, the Commandos and Colonel Philips, the people he saw at the various towns and villages he visited, the survivors of the concentration camps. The medals he won (including the Medal of Honor, posthumously) and a folded flag in a rosewood shadow box, all cushioned against sleek jet black velvet. A little gold plaque read: _Steven Grant "Captain America" Rogers: The Greatest Hero of Our Generation_. The other box contained some personal affects that Peggy or Howard refused to give to the Smithsonian for their Captain America exhibit. A tattered old photo album, along with a tattered old bible, and some of Steve's uniforms. Natasha set the shadow box, bible and photo album aside, while returning the sketchbooks and stack of love letters back into the boxes and placing them back on the shelf. Maybe next time they were in DC she'd take Steve here and he can sort through the rest.

The other boxes in the storage unit had the Shield logo stamped on them and a red _Declassified_ stamp superimposed on it. Natasha pulled them down, looking through the faded stacks of papers in their manila folders: Project Pegasus, Hank Pym/Ant-Man, and several other names she never heard of or didn't recognize. She pulled out the paper again, checked the lot number and found the corresponding box. It was a shoebox — not that she was surprised — and pulled it down. Natasha took the shoebox and sat down on the concrete floor, flipping the lead to see what was inside. There wasn't much inside, a few photographs, a few official documents, a thin folder and a report written by Peggy.

One old photograph shoulder a woman standing with her arms around several others in front of an old WWII Russian bomber. Flipping the picture over was a Russian scrawl in iron gale ink: 588th Night Bomber Regiment, 1942. Below was the list of the pilots names, one caught her eye: Olga Vladimirovna Bezukhov. Her eyes grew wide and she flipped the picture over and found Olga. The round smiling face of her grandmother stared back at her, and she saw where her facial features came from. "Babushka," she whispered, tracing her grandmother's face as foggy memories of an old woman that told her stories of Captain America and who called her _moya malen'kaya balerina_ flitted through her mind. Natasha set the photograph aside, and picked up another one. A faded old polaroid of a man and a woman. The woman held a baby girl. Beneath it was some writing; the ink bled, rending the names of the man and woman illegible, but the name of the baby girl was still readable. It was her name along with her date of birth. Natasha covered her mouth, staring at the picture of her parents, tears burning at the corner of her eyes. Wiping away her tears, she set the polaroid atop of her grandmother's photograph and thumbed through the documents. Most of them she was familiar with, Russian documents from the Red Room, but one caught her eye for it had the fancy embossed seal of a Ukrainian province. Her daughter's birth certificate: Romanova, Rose Nikolaievna, date of birth September 19, 2000. Her name along the line that said _mother_ and Nikolai's name on the line that said _father_. Tears dripped onto the sturdy paper; proof that her daughter had been born, that it wasn't an implanted memory the Red Room gave her to encourage slavish devotion to their authority (as twisted as that sounded). Rose had been real, alive — even if only for a little while. Another picture fluttered into her lap, this one taken with a telescopic lens: it was her holding Rose while she and Nikolai admired their tiny newborn daughter. Natasha gasped, struggling to keep the sob at bay. It must've been this picture that Fury had shown Peggy all those years ago, the one that made her determine to save this small family. If only Peggy had gotten to them in time.

All the documents had Peggy's loopy signature on them and Fury's chicken scratch. Most of it didn't shed any light on her past that she didn't already knew. Not that she was expecting much, the birth certificate and the three pictures were more than enough. The last page of the report was personally written by Peggy herself. It was mundane for the most part, recapping the failed mission: finding Nikolai's body, the body of her baby (it warmed Natasha's heart knowing they gave her daughter a proper funeral), and how they failed to secure her. Natasha laughed upon reading Peggy's assessment of Fury: _He has a stick stuck so far up is arse that you can see it when he yawns. Despite that he cares deeply for his subordinates._

Setting the report back inside the folder, Natasha put back the stuff she didn't plan on taking with her — she'll come back here later, with Steve — and set the little shoebox on the shelf, gathered up the items she took from Steve's boxes and left the storage unit, locking it up again. She thanked the guard when she returned the key and tried Steve's cell phone. It went to voicemail. Frowning, she got into her car and drove off, trying to think of where he'd be as she tried his phone again. Once again, she got his voicemail and sighed, tossing the phone into the passenger seat.

* * *

After a reflective moment or two, Natasha headed to Arlington National Cemetery and walked through the rows and rows of white tombstones, the final resting place for America's fallen defenders. All the graves were lovingly maintained by the staff, little American flags fluttering in the breeze, some had flowers from family and friends placed before them, others had small trinkets or photographs of children they'll never get to see. Natasha smiled sadly as she walked through them until she came to the section for WWII service members. She found Steve standing alone among the white tombstones. She walked up to him, nudging him in the ribs. "Excuse me," she said, smiling at him, "have you seen a fossil around here? Wouldn't know how to use a phone to tell his best girl where he is?" Steve didn't say anything. No twitch of his lips and barely a glance at her direction. His gaze fixated on the dull quarter sitting atop of the tombstone. "What's with the quarter?" she asked, reaching for it, but Steve grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers.

"Pennies mean you visited, nickels mean you went to bootcamp together, dimes mean you served in the same unit together, quarters" — he swallowed, blinking away the tears and she noticed the tear tracks on his cheeks — "you where there when they died." And it was then that she noticed the name on the tombstone: _James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. March 10, 1917 – April 8_ _th_ _, 1945._ "I'd come here every Sunday after church. If I missed a Sunday cause we had a mission, I came as soon as we were done debriefing. The coins are an old tradition" — he shrugged — "I'm an old man after all." He knelt and traced the lettering on Bucky's tombstone. Steve shook his head. "I should've… it was my fault."

"Steve, he's alive. We'll find him," she said, ignoring the acidic taste of bile rising in her throat. She knew where Bucky was, had the number to his burner phone in her contacts list. It would be so easy to pull her phone out, dial the number and let Steve hear the voice of his long lost friend — yet her promise to Bucky stayed her hand. "I promise," she said, wrapping Steve up in her arms. "I promise." He didn't say anything, just hugged her tight and she felt his hot tears against her neck. Damn you James, damn you to the deepest circle of hell for this. Do you know how much Steve's suffering because of your selfishness? She closed her eyes and gave him a firm squeeze. "Let's go," she said, pulling away from him and taking his hand. He nodded, following her as they left the cemetery.

* * *

They took their time getting to Sam's place. Steve held the photo album, his bible (it turned out to be his mother's, and Natasha felt her heart warm when his face lit up at the sight of it), and the shadow box in his lap (her keepsakes from the storage unit had been stored safely in the trunk). They turned onto Sam's street and came to his house at the end. A white and orange U-Haul was parked in his driveway. Sam came out of his house with a large box in his arms. Parking at the curb, they got out to greet their friend. "Hey, Sam." Steve went over to his friend, Natasha followed a step behind him. Sam grinned, setting his box into the U-Haul and came over to give them both a hug.

"Good to see you man," he said, "Natasha."

She hugged him. "Hi Sam," she said. "Moving?" she tilted her head towards the trailer. Sam nodded, leading them both inside. His house seemed emptier since the last time she was here, all his personal possessions boxed up and waiting their turn to be moved into the trailer.

"Heading back to New York," Sam said, "can't have Cap here showing me up and making me look like a bad son with my mom."

Natasha arched a brow, glancing at Steve. "Did I miss something?" she asked, looking at Steve, who rubbed the back of his neck. "Steven?" She narrowed her eyes.

"What?" Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. "You know Sam, he has a mouth wider than his wings."

"Hey."

Natasha chuckled. "I see your point now." Sam laughed too, jovially taking the jab at his own expense. "So why heading back to New York?"

"Wanted a change, plus Steve here is going to around helping my mother move furniture and getting things out of storage for her" — Sam shook his head — "can't have him showing me up. Last time I talked to her; she was reading to adopt him."

"Oh, jeez." Steve laughed.

"Wait, your mom lives in New York?" She asked as Sam lead them to the kitchen and poured them some water. Sam nodded.

"Yup. I grew up in Harlem, but she grew up in New Orleans, met my dad there and then followed him up to New York when he got transferred to a better job."

"She has a nice place," Steve added, "and Sam — her food, especially that gumbo — is to die for."

"Wait until you try her chocolate chip cookies," Sam said. "By the way Steve, I have your sketchbooks that you forgot. Hill called me, told me to get my ass over to your old place and help the guys sort through your shit. There's box in the guest room with your things — if you wanna keep anything."

"What sketchbooks?" Natasha asked, taking a sip of her water. She looked at Steve, who seemed rather focused on the ice in his glass. Sam smirked.

"He didn't tell you?" She shook her head. "Well, lover-boy here spent any down time we had while chasing ghosts across Europe and Russia sketching a former Russian spy he just couldn't get outta his head, even though he claimed she was 'just a friend'."

"You drew me?" Natasha stared at Steve. If it was anyone else, she'd find it creepy, but because it was Steve there was something sweet about it. She bowed her head, a shy smile on her lips. "I want to see them."

"Natasha…" Steve looked uncomfortable. Sam smirked. "Is this revenge?" he asked Sam. "I was just being nice, helping out your mom."

"You went and helped my mom the same day you made Nat pancakes. And its not revenge, your girlfriend scares me — you on the other hand, are soft."

"Fuck you," Steve said, and they laughed. Natasha leaned into Steve's side and she smiled when he kissed her head. "Any plans for dinner? Since we stopped by?"

"Yeah, I was thinking Chinese, you two are staying the night?"

"Yup," Natasha said, "and if Steve's asking about food now, he's hungry" — she smiled at Sam — "chop chop Wilson, Cap here wants dinner."

"Here" — Steve pulled out his wallet and handed Sam a crumpled hundred-dollar bill — "gonna need it. I eat like a horse. Golden Dragon is the best Chinese here."

"I'll be back then," Sam said, taking the offered money. "You kids don't do anything I wouldn't do," he added as he left the house; Natasha heard the jingle of his keys as he walked out the door. Once she was sure his car had rumbled away, she grabbed Steve's hand, leading him to the guest bedroom.

"What are you planning Natasha?" he asked as she closed the door to the guestroom. She smirked. "Nat?"

"I saw the way you looked at me after I manhandled Mike," she purred, walking up to him and trailing a finger down his chest, a coy smile on her lips. "You got turned on."

He chuckled, grabbing her biceps. "I'll admit, seeing you manhandle him was arousing." She stood on her tiptoes and pecked his lips, hands tugging at the waistband of his jeans. "Natasha, we're at Sam's place. He'll be back in thirty." She wiggled her hand down his pants, giving him a firm squeeze through his boxers. He groaned. "Nat."

"Isn't it thrilling?" she asked. "We can be quick, let me manhandle you," she said, kissing him hard. Nipping and tugging at his lip as she stroked and squeezed him through the cotton of his boxers. He groaned, grip tightening on her arms and she used her weight to push him towards the bed. He compiled, taking a few step backs until his knees hit the edge of the bed. "Don't you want me to manhandle you?" she asked, pulling her hand from his pants and lifting her shirt over her head as she ground down on his erection — hard and straining against his jeans. Steve tipped his head back, groaning, the veins and tendons bulging against the skin of his throat. A powerful thrill shivered down her spine.

"Fuck," he breathed out as his hands trailed down her shoulders, along the elastic of her brow and cupped her breasts. She moaned, grinding against him. "Fuck." Natasha chuckled, slipping her bra off and sighing when she felt his hands against her skin. Fingers pinched and teased her breasts, and she leaned over so he could capture one with his mouth. The slight pressure from his gentle nip made her wetter and she wanted nothing more than to have his hot hard cock in her slick wet cunt. It seems Steve wanted that too, for as he kissed and teased her breasts, his hands trailed lower to her hips. In one quick motion, he flipped them, tugging at her pants — popping the button in the process. "Whoops."

"Don't stop," she said.

"Yes, ma'am." He pulled her jeans off and kissed her stomach. Lust and want driving him, as he left little nips on her soft skin. He wasn't gentle, tearing off her thong — she didn't mind going commando — and slipping two fingers into her. She groaned. "That's it baby, that's it."

"Shut up." She grabbed his face, kissing him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, battling him for dominance. He growled, pumping his fingers — hard and fast — thumb brushing her nub. She shuddered; a moan muffled by their heated kiss. She maneuvered her foot, pressed it against his groin and he whined, the friction and restriction agonizing. He pulled away, pupils wide with lust. She used that to her advantage, pushing him willingly onto his back and stripping him of his pants and boxers. "You're good at standing at attention soldier," she said, stroking him slowly from base to tip. His chuckle turned into a groan when she dragged one nail along the soft skin of his scrotum. A mischievous smirk danced on her lips and she dipped her head to lap at the pre-cum oozing at the tip of his cock. His back bowed as he whined, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead. "Kakoy ty khoroshiy soldat," she purred as she nuzzled the shaft, drinking in the heady scent of his musk.

"Damn it, Nat," he growled, tugging at the bedsheets. Beneath his moans came a ripping sound. She chuckled. "Need you." She pulled away and he bucked his hips. "Need you so bad."

"Say please," she said, dragging one finger along the thick vein on the underside of his cock. There was something empowering about seeing Captain America at her mercy. All his strength and raw physical power, wound tight and acutely tuned to her delicate touch. Steve whined. "Soldier."

"Please," he gasped out, a shadow of sweat seeping through his shirt. "Please." She grinned, lifting herself up and lowered herself on his cock. She moaned, feeling her walls stretch to accommodate his girth; a pleasurable sensation. Natasha slid her hands from his hips up underneath his shirt and he helped her get it over his head. It joined the heap of clothes by the bedside. She kissed her way up his stomach, his neck, and finally his lips before she started rocking her hips.

She set a hard and fast pace. Seeing the way his face twisted, the flush from his hairline down to his pecs, drove her one. She touched him along his sides, his nipples, his shoulders; leaving kisses everywhere her searing fingers touched. He thrust into her, hard and firm and sure, hitting the spot deep inside her. She whimpered, leaning back, trusting that his strong hands would be there to support her. He took that moment to reverse their positions, pushing her deeper into the bed as he increased the pace now that he had better leverage. She moaned, wrapping her arms and legs around him, whispering to him in Russian. Steve growled, slamming home with each thrust, the springs of the bed squeaking and the old bedframe rattling in protest.

He gave a powerful thrust that had her moaning, her back arching and he slipped his hands around the small of her back to keep her pressed firmly against him. It was dizzy and humid in the room, her entire mind focused on Steve. She tugged at his hair as he nipped at her neck. The pressure felt too much between her legs, boiling over in her core. "Steve," she whispered as she finally came undone with his next thrust. Her body shuddering and going pliant in his arms as her walls clenched around him. The extra sensation sent him over the edge, spilling his seed into her as he moaned into her neck, his hips jerking weakly. They collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of sweat slick limbs. The bedframe gave a shuddering groan before crashing to the floor. Natasha laughed, stretching beneath him and ran her knuckles along his spine. His weight was comforting against her body, like a weighted blanket. He kissed her lazily.

"Thanks," he said, kissing the spot next to her ear, "I needed that."

"Me too," she said as he rolled off her. The other end of the bedframe groaned before collapsing. She looked at the bed, the ripped sheets where Steve had gripped them, their discarded clothes on the floor. "Do you think Sam will be upset?"

He shrugged. "Dunno," he said, and then glanced at his watch. Her heart did a girlish flutter when she realized it was the watch, she gave him — that he had been wearing it since she gave it to him. "I think I can go another round or two, we have time before he gets back."

"We can always call him and tell him to pick up dessert," she said. Steve smirked and she scrambled for her phone. She felt his hand on the curve of her ass. "You like what you see, soldier?" she asked, as she felt his weight against her back.

"You know, I'd plow through you like the Nazis did Poland in '37" — he kissed her spine — "if you let me take you from behind."

She found Sam's number and tapped out a text: _Wilson, get some ice cream. Butter pecan and mint chocolate chip. Don't forget or else._ "Only if you take me against the wall next," she said, tossing her phone onto the night stand. Steve hummed against her back.

"Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> Some things are revealed while others are left a mystery. Once again the sex makes an erotic appearence. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review (and if that doesn't motivate you, every time you don't review HYDRA kills a puppy. You don't want puppy blood on your hands now would you ಠ_ಠ ). 
> 
> For the shy people: put the emoji you felt while reading. :)


	14. How's the Heart

_How's the heart, underneath the silence? How's the one, drowning in the mire? Let us sound a human paean. Come in, the fire's warm; burn the rope and dance come more_ — _Nightwish_

* * *

 _We found an old facility in Siberia, frozen over_ — _no Barnes, but something about the Black Widow program_ — _specifically you._ The heater hissed hot air out the vents in the dashboard, Sam's words bouncing around in her head. _After that, Steve had nightmares. Woke up screaming, wouldn't talk about them_ — _just kept muttering your name. We stopped hunting for Barnes a few weeks later, spent the rest of the time touring Europe._ The highway felt empty, only a few cars on the road with them; considering the majority of people had the good sense to make it to their families prior to Thanksgiving Day — she'll blame Sam for the delay; he roped them into helping him move back to New York. Payback, he explained, for breaking his guest bed and leaving butt prints in the guest room's drywall. Still, Natasha had roused herself and Steve in the wee hours of the morning (well, she roused herself, Steve was in the gym on the treadmill). They grabbed coffee, donuts and McMuffins on the way out of the city, the radio playing Christmas songs as they zipped pass the city lights — New York appearing dull and lethargic with the majority of people enjoying the holiday with their families — and into the dark northern morn beyond.

The countryside felt eerie, as if they jumped into the pages of a horror novel. The overcast sky lent a somber miasma to the landscape, the majority of trees leafless, their bare branches scrapping scraggily fingers towards the brooding sky. Around ten o'clock it started raining and the windshield wipers of Steve's SUV thump-thunked against the glass. She was surprised Steve even let her drive his car, she would've preferred her Corvette but where they were going Steve's SUV was better. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" Steve asked, twisting around in his seat to look at the grim landscape. They drove pass a farm hous with a barn that looked old enough to offer succor to Washington's troops during the winter.

"Uh-huh" — she nodded — "Clint likes his privacy." A truck a few models old passed them, the owner's dog sticking its head out the window, squinting in the freezing rain.

"Bit excessive, don'tcha think?" Steve turned the down. Natasha adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, leather creaking beneath her palms. Leaves swirled along side the road. A herd of deer traversed across empty fields, the blanket covered horses paying them no mind. As they continued north, the houses got further and further apart, some looked abandoned — windows boarded up or the glass covered in grime — Natasha could almost feel the ghosts of soldiers lingering in the dead spaces between the trees. That ethereal dread clawing at her gut or maybe it was just her nerves. She glanced at Steve, debating if she should bring up the nightmares Sam spoke of or just let sleeping dogs lie.

It was hard, putting the events of the last few days out of her mind: Coulson alive, Stephanie bringing up her dead daughter, Sam confining in her about Steve's nightmares, Bucky's phone call — so many secrets, weighing on her soul like ten thousand pound weights each. For a while the bad was tempered by the good: their passion in the bedroom — it seemed like they couldn't get enough of each other, feasting on the pleasures of the flesh almost every night (and sometimes the morning). Spending time with Sam and helping him settle into one of the spare rooms in Steve's wing in the Tower — until he found a place of his own, of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that he could see Hill almost every day. Celebrating Thanksgiving with the other Avengers before everyone peeled off and did their own thing for the actual holiday. Good cheer and better company had been age old remedies, but they did nothing to dispel the demons — merely stave them off for a time.

Steve shifted, the leather creaking. Another car zoomed passed them, headlights glaring orange into the gloaming. The trees grew thicker, dark brooding pines, bare oaks, aspens, elms, and maples. Christmas songs juxtaposed with the sullen dread of the landscaped caused laughter to bubble in her breast at the uncanniness of it all. The McDonald's bag rustled, Steve pulling out the last of the tepid McMuffins. "Why does Clint live so far away if he's a bachelor?"

Natasha bit her tongue, flicking the blinker to signal a left turn at the fork. "He's not a bachelor," she said, turning. "We'll be there in twenty minutes." The road they turned down had great looming trees, their branches reaching across the road, entangling in the middle. The rain was weaker beneath the brooding branches, the car's headlights the only source of illumination as they drove through the tunnel of trees.

"Forgot how much the New England forests remind me of the Black Forest," Steve said, his voice hushed, almost as if he sensed the reverence demanded by the trees. "Especially with the weather like this," he added as _Joy to the World_ came on. "Spent Christmas of '43 in the forest. You'd be surprised how red blood is against white snow." He licked his lips.

Not really. Red blood against white snow was a staple of her childhood, along with the icy bite of gun metal in her palm, the wind's frigid kiss against her cheeks. The crack of gunfire echoing in the looming snow capped Urals, red hair whipping into emerald eyes. "Makes you sick," she said, voice lost amongst the course of _Deck the Halls_. "Such pristine purity tainted by such vivid sin." Snowflakes alighting on a lifeless cheek, no tears shed and a heartless woman saying: Khoroshaya devchka, Natalia. Realization of how easy it is to take a life settling over a young soul.

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at the last bite of his McMuffin before shoving it into his mouth. "Always closed the eyes of the dead boys. I think… I think that's the hardest thing about death. The eyes. You almost think they're alive." He ran his hand along his jaw, a weak chuckle escaping him as _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ echoed in the warm car. The car exited the over arching boughs into a sad brown meadow with a few deer grazing at the dead grass. Just beyond the meadow was another outcropping of trees, the pines dark against the bare deciduous trees.

"Can you keep a secret?" she asked, as they followed the gentle curve of the road. "Even from Tony and the other Avengers. Nobody can ever know about this."

Steve frowned. "Natasha." She flicked her blinker and pulled into a long serpentine gravel driveway. "Is Clint a secret axe murderer and you're gonna help him kill me?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light, yet she heard the slight trepidation in his voice.

She laughed, breaking the gloomy atmosphere that hung over them. Though it did nothing to dispel the weight of the secrets she kept from him or the worry that those secrets would tear asunder whatever she and Steve have been cultivating in the last few weeks. "No, no," she said, smiling as she let a doe and its older fawn pass. "Nothing of the sort. No," she said and cleared her throat. "Clint's married, and he has two kids, Lila and Cooper. With a third on the way" — she smirked — "and a promise to name the baby after me."

Steve gaped at her, resembling a fish out of water. Smiling, she pushed his jaw shut with her finger; his teeth clinked together. "Clint's married?"

"And his older brother is visiting, so play nice. Barney is kinda… gruff, and he doesn't like me. I tried to cut his balls off once."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "He and Clint are estranged, but that's not the reason why." The SUV bounced and jostled through the pothole-riddled road, muddy water splashing up onto the tire rims. "Anyway, you can't tell anyone," she said, as an old white farm house came into view — bright against the grey sky, painfully exposed in the clearing surrounded by trees with mountains looming sentinel in the distance like silent sleepy guardians. "It's not even in his Shield file. Only Fury knows about this — besides me that is."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," Steve said, as Natasha pulled up to the dirty looking garage. A dog's barking could be heard coming from the house and the clucking of chickens could be heard once Natasha turned the car off.

"Even though you're a terrible liar?" she smirked, her brow arching as she dropped the keys into his hand. He closed his hand around her fingers and pulled her close, stealing a kiss.

"Well, I was trained by Peggy Carter" — he smirked — "she's a damn good spy, last I checked."

Natasha hummed, tapping his cheek with a finger. "And I'm the Black Widow." The dog jumped onto the car, barking wildly, one ear flopping while the other stood straight. It was a mutt: marble blue with white spots and splotches of coppery tan and onyx black, her eyes a bright clear blue. "Don't worry, she's more bark than bite," Natasha said, as she put her hat on and got out of the car. The dog pushed away from Steve's door and ran around the car to great her. "Hi, girlie," she said, running her hands along the dog's head, the animal's hindquarters shaking in excitement. "You missed me" — Natasha reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a treat — "yes, I missed you too." The dog took the treat, chomping it down in a few quick bites. Another dog came from behind the house, all black as night with a curly coat. "Oh, I didn't forget you." Natasha walked up to the other dog and gave him a few pats and a treat. A sharp whistle called the two dogs away, though the first went rather reluctantly.

"I didn't know you like dogs," Steve said as he joined her, the bottle of wine cradled in his arm. "We could get a dog."

Natasha shrugged. "I'm more of a cat person," she said as Clint walked up to them. "You need to customary sniff though, so expect to be bombarded by them." She hugged Clint. "Sorry we're late."

"Nah, hope the mutts didn't give you too much trouble," he said, "Cap." Steve nodded in greeting. "The game just started, so you're not that tardy. Laura could use your help." Clint took the wine. "Oh, this is a good one."

"I'm sure Tony would be so delighted to know we enjoyed it," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Clint chuckled, leading them up the porch. The dogs surrounded them again, tails wagging as they sniffed Steve's legs and then Natasha's. She smiled when Steve crouched down and let the animals lick his face, his hands scratching the good spots behind their ears.

"Daddy, is Auntie Nat here?" a little girl shouted through the screen door, her brown hair tied in two pigtails. Natasha grinned, stepping out from behind Clint.

"Why don't you come hug her and find out," Natasha said. The little girl squealed, the screen door banged open and Natasha wrapped the girl in her arms. "Hi, Lila." She settled Clint's daughter on her hip.

"Hey, hey, where are your shoes, missy?" Clint tugged on her socked foot. "You know you aren't supposed to be outside without shoes when it's cold."

"But Daddy," Lila said, "Auntie Nat is holding me." The girl rested her head on Natasha's shoulder. "I don't need shoes if I'm not walkin'."

"She's got you there Clint," Natasha said, kissing her niece's forehead. Clint rolled his eyes. "Did you miss me?" she asked the little girl.

"Uh-huh." Lila nodded. "You're staying for the weekend right, Auntie Nat?"

"You bet," she said, nuzzling Lila's nose, a wide smile on her face. It was times like these — precious moments spent with Clint's family — that her inability to have children pained her. Being Auntie Nat to the Barton kids was the closet she'll ever get to being a mother again. Maybe it was for the best — she always tried to reason with herself. She got to do all the fun things without all the discipline that came with raising a child. "Moya malen'kaya sinyaya ptitsa." She pressed a kiss to Lila's brow.

"Uncle Barney's staying too," Lila said, "our house is super-duper small now." Lila gasped when the dogs finally parted ways with Steve. "Wow," she whispered, "he's like a prince" — her face lit up — "and you're a princess, you two can get married."

Steve's eyes almost popped out of his skull. "Uh… what?" He looked confused. Natasha tossed her head and laughed, swaying from side to side as she nuzzled Lila's forehead.

"Oh moya malen'kaya sinyaya ptitsa, what an imagination you have" — she kissed Lila's brow again — "where in the world did you get the idea that I'm a princess."

"From _Anastasia_ , duh!" Lila leaned back to get a better look at her aunt. "Anastasia has the same last name as you! So you must be related _somehow_. And if you're related to Anastasia that means you're a princess and that makes him your prince" — she glanced at Steve, a thoughtful finger jabbed beneath her bottom lip — "though Dmitri _is_ a servant boy. So, I guess he can be your servant boy too." She beamed, glad the childish dilemma was solved. She wiggled, and Natasha set her down. She walked up to Steve and did a little curtsy with her imaginary skirt. "I'm Lila."

Chuckling, Steve bowed. "I'm Steve." He knelt down to her level. "I'm a friend of your daddy's."

"Are you Auntie Nat's prince or servant boy?" Lila asked. Steve looked to Natasha for guidance but she shrugged, tucking her hands beneath her armpits.

"Well," Steve said, "can I be both? I mean, if a servant boy marries a princess, doesn't that turn him into a prince?"

"I guess," Lila said, a cute little frown on her face, "but Dmitri was a servant boy… but he married Anastasia and she's a princess…" Lila looked at Natasha.

"A farm girl marries a prince and becomes a princess" — Lila nodded — "then the same is true for servant boys marrying a princess."

"Okay!" Lila clapped her hands. "You're Auntie Nat's prince, Uncle Steve!" she said. "I like your sweater," she said, tugging at the white cable knit sweater. "C'mon in," she said and opened the door, dancing in place. Natasha lead the way, patting Lila's head.

"Servant boy," she whispered to Steve as she handed him her coat. "I like that idea." He chuckled, kissing her cheek.

"Only until I marry you," he said, a glint in his eyes, "then I become a prince."

She blushed. "I'm not a princess," she said as she slipped her shoes off. He took her hand, kissing her knuckles. "Steve."

"You are to me." His blue eyes darkened, love and lust mingling in the depths of his gaze. She pulled her hand away, fluffing her hair and walked to the couch. She shouted a hello to the kitchen and Laura hollered back a quick greeting, too busy in the kitchen for a proper introduction. She grinned, grabbing Cooper's shoulders.

"Rude little boys get eaten by Baba Yaga," she said, kissing his head as he squealed and dropped his 3DS. "Why didn't you come say hi to me?"

"Cause I can say hi to you when you came inside," Cooper said, twisting around and giving her a hug. "Hi Auntie Nat." He looked over her shoulder and gasped. "Auntie Nat is that him?" He swallowed. "Captain America?"

"Yes, you can call him Uncle Steve though," she said and her gaze fell to the other man on the couch. She ruffled Cooper's hair and walked over to Clint's brother. "Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in." She plopped herself down on the armrest, an amused devilish look on her face. "Hello Charles."

Barney Barton glared at her as he sipped his coke. "It's Barney." He nodded to her. "What do you want?"

"A hello for starters," she said, plucking his coke from his hand and taking a long swallow before giving it back to him. "Surprised your super top secret FBI task force let you have the holiday."

Barney shrugged. "Boss said family's important, so gave us the weekend. We can still pick up the trail after. It's a corpse" — Barney shrugged — "not like it's going anywhere."

She smiled. "Right." She looked at Steve as he walked over, greeting Cooper before standing by her. "Charles, this is Steve."

"Hi." Steve gave Barney a little wave.

"So, you're the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan, huh?" Barney said. Steve gave him a tight smile. "Well, sit down, watch the game." Barney shifted on the couch. "And call me Barney. Spook insists on calling me by my first name." He rolled his eyes, and she muttered something crude in Russian.

"I'm not much of a football person," Steve said, walking around the couch and sitting between Barney and Cooper. Natasha smiled, before heading to the kitchen where Laura was busily making dinner. Clint was with her, trying to get treats here and here.

"Clint, why don't you make yourself useful and go watch the game," Natasha said, shooing him away as she grabbed an apron off the hook and tied it around her waist. Laura laughed, smacking Clint on the butt as he grabbed a few beers from the fridge and headed into the living room, Lila trotting after him with a juice box. Laura paused in her work and came over to Natasha. "Hi Laura," she said, and rested her hand on Laura's belly, "and little Natasha." Her throat felt tight as she remembered when she felt her own daughter kick beneath her palm all those years ago, watching as her belly swelled with her child safe within.

"You'll have one of your own," Laura said, patting her cheek. "Especially if what Clint tells me is true" — Laura grabbed her hands — "is it true?"

"What's true?" Natasha furrowed her brow, flummoxed. Laura sighed, returning to her cooking. "Laura, what's true?"

"I swear you're denser than the man I married," she said, the knife slicing through the carrots, "start that pot boiling, it's for the stuffing and you're making pierogis?" Natasha went to the sink and washed her hands.

"Yeah," she said, "you got the dough ready for me, right?" she asked. Laura nodded. Natasha wiped her hands on her apron and started to work. The kitchen had a rhythm, built upon the sounds of boiling water and simmering gravy, Laura's chopping and her kneading the dough for the pierogis. It brought back hazy memories of a time before the Red Room when her grandmother showed her the secret to making the best pierogis. How to knead the dough and roll it out, cut the little circles and fill it with a savory mixture of ground beef and cabbage. The little rhyme she learned as a child tumbled from her lips as she pinched the ends closed, squeezing out the air and setting the finished dumpling in the bowl.

"You need to give me the filling recipe," Laura said, peeling an onion as Natasha got a cast iron pan hot for the oil. Her grandmother's reedy voice in her head, telling her she can't have pierogis without fried onions on top. "Clint loves it, and whines that he only gets it during Thanksgiving."

"If I gave you the recipe, we'll need to change Clint's codename from _Hawkeye_ to _Fat Bird_." She grinned, giggling along with Laura. She took the peeled onion from her friend and chopped it, dredging the thing rings in a light dusting of flour before testing a few with the oil. The hot oil hissed and bubbled and Natasha hummed an old lullaby as she worked. It reminded her of the old apartment she lived in, the ballet magazines she collected off the streets, the old news reels with images of the glorious Red Army and Captain America, and whispered promises from her grandmother that her parents would return soon.

"So, are you ever gonna answer me?" Laura asked, setting another pot of water boiling, Natasha added a handful of salt, arching a brow quizzically. "About you and Cap?" she clarified.

"What about us?" It was better to play dumb sometimes, needle the question out of Laura. Alas, Laura knew the tactic well and rolled her eyes, nudging her in the ribs. "What, I don't know what you're talking about. Be specific."

"You're doing that spy thing, where you play dumb," Laura said, "I know how he looks at you. Clint stares at me like that too, especially when I'm in the third trimester." She grinned. "Sometimes I think he likes it when I look like a cow."

"You don't look like a cow, honey, but beautiful!" Clint shouted from his chair in the living room. Natasha laughed as rolled her eyes, straining the fried onions and putting them on a paper towel to drain. She looked at Laura and smirked.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, "just drink your beer and stay outta my kitchen." She opened the oven and stuck a meat thermometer into the turkey to check the temperature. Natasha finished frying the onions and checked the water in the pot. Smiling at the roaring boil, she added the pierogis, gently poking them with a chopstick to keep them from sticking together. It was a labor of love, getting the pile of pierogis cooked. Natasha strained the oil into a jar and added butter to the hot iron skillet and flash fried the pierogis. "So, who's gonna be your taste tester this year?" Laura asked, eyeing the cooked pierogis. Natasha smirked.

"Steve! Get your ass in here, I have a job for you," Natasha shouted over the din of Clint and Barney cheering. Steve poked his head in and she waved him over.

"Uh, what's up hun?" he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Laura eyed Natasha and walked over to Steve. "Hi."

"Hi," she said and gave him a hug. "I'm Laura, sorry about not coming out earlier, but Clint's worthless in the kitchen." She looked at Natasha. "Do you trust her?"

"With my life," Steve said, innocent. Laura's brows shot into her hairline and she glanced at Natasha. "What?"

"You're either really stupid or you got a pair of balls on you," Laura said, as Natasha plucked a golden-brown pierogi from the pile and offered it to Steve. "She made those."

"You can cook?" He let her drop it into his hand. "I didn't know you can cook."

"Not really" — Natasha wrinkled her nose — "I can make stroganoff, pierogis and borscht, but that's it."

"Don't eat it," Laura said. Steve frowned, looked at the benign dumpling before popping into his mouth. Laura gasped. Natasha waited for Steve to say something.

"These are good," he said after he swallowed. "Thanks honey." He kissed Natasha, plucked three more from the pile and went back to the living room; she couldn't stop the little dorky smile that spread across her lips. Lila and Cooper trotted in a few minutes later, like a pair of starving waifs — palms raised in hopes of an offering in kind.

"You only get one, the rest are for dinner," Natasha said and gave them one each. The kids grinned, said their thank you's and scuttled back to the living room. Steve had called her _honey_. It felt natural, as if they were one of those elderly couples that have been together for over fifty years.

"I know that look," Laura said. "About damn time too. What? were you waiting for thia bun in the oven to be in college until you _finally_ got your ass together and let yourself be happy for once?"

"Steve and I aren't really dating" — Laura arched a brow — "we're together, but—"

"Oh, cut the crap Nat, he called you _honey_ and you had this goofy smile on your face since then. You two are dating and if you aren't then I'm not pregnant. I know I'm pregnant so that means you two are dating."

"I hate you." Scowling as she chopped the fried onions and sprinkled them onto the pierogis.

"Love you too, sis." Laura began getting the serving dishes and utensils out. "Cooper, Lila! Set the table!" she hollered into the living room. The kids whined; Clint told them to listen to their mother. Lila collected the placemats and napkins, while Cooper brought over the plates and silverware. Natasha popped the cork on the wine bottle, the heady scent wafting up as she allowed the bottle to breathe, she opens a bottle of sparkling apple and pomegranate cider. Laura sniffed the open wine bottle. "That smells good."

"And you can't have any," she said, giving her friend an annoying smile, "don't worry I'll make sure to drink a glass for you." She looked at the sparkling cider. "The kids' stuff isn't bad."

"No, but it gives me heartburn," she said and pulled out a carton of grape juice. "Good thing I have this." She poured the grape juice into her wine glass, sipping it. "Now, I blend in." They laughed; Natasha poured the wine in the other glasses for the adults and brought them over to the table. Laura checked the turkey, declared it done and pulled it out of the oven with a grunt. Natasha began placing the side dishes into various bowls. "Clint, come carve the bird," Laura said. Clint grumbled, the recline squeaking back into an upright position and he came into the kitchen.

"Do I get some skin?" he asked, as he took the fork and the carving knife for his wife. She scowled. "Just asking" — he started cutting into the leg joint of the turkey — "Coop wants his drumstick — even though he never eats all of it — Nat the wings" — pulled the leg away and then cut into the shoulder join by the wing and tore it away from the body, stealing a bit of skin in the process — "You and Lila like breast meat. Hey, Steve: white or dark?" Clint looked out into the living room.

"White," Steve called back. Clint nodded, cutting slices off the breast and setting them on the serving place. He cut a few slices of dark meat as well, and the other wing for Natasha.

"Barn? White or dark?" Clint asked.

"I brought my own food Clint," Barney said, as he got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. Natasha eyed the brass FBI badge on his hip. "I know Laura's a good cook but" — Barney glanced at her — "the spook's here and I'm not spending all night on the shitter like that one year."

"Maybe I should've cut your balls off, Charles," Natasha said, "and mind your tongue, Steve doesn't like it when you use that sort of language," she said, unaware that Steve had come up behind her.

"You know what Romanoff," he said, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up. Natasha squeaked, laughing. Feeling his lips against hers — she'll forgive herself for letting her guard down enough for him to get the jump on her. Clint and Laura shared a look that she'll reprimand them for later, right now she was too busy getting caught up in the taste of her pierogis on Steve's lips. "I'll forgive him" — there was a dark glint in Steve's eyes — "cause by my reckoning you did him a favor" — he nodded at Barney — "you are a little plump around the edges."

Barney flushed, balling his hands into fists. "Go get a room you two," Laura said, stepping in to defuse the situation, "if you insist on sucking face." Steve let her go, winked at her as he smacked her ass and went to sit down at the table. "What were you saying about you two not dating?" Laura gave her a beady glare.

Natasha huffed, poured more some more wine (even though her glass was still half full) and took a long swallow of the rich dark liquid. "We aren't defining it," she said.

"Then what are you two defining it as?" Clint counted out the slices of turkey, carved some skin off and put it on a smaller plate. "Cause, you two are acting like you've been married for years."

Normally, she'd balk at the idea of marriage. Nikolai's sudden death had convinced her that any man she'd married would just end up dead at some point. The closest she had come to wanting to try again had been with Matt, but that idea quickly fell through. Marrying Steve didn't seem like a bad idea — she didn't balk at it — instead that silly smile came back and she imagined a quiet life with him in Brooklyn (she wouldn't want to live anywhere else with him), danced through her mind. She schooled her face when she felt Clint and Laura staring at her. "And you're complaining because?" Natasha arched a brow, as Laura scooped up the platter of turkey. Clint chuckled. "I thought you wanted me to settle down?"

"We do, Nat," he said, teasing some skin off the bird, "so stop fighting it. Be happy for once" — he grinned — "And let us tease you."

She huffed, smiling as she took some skin from the plate and walked over to the dining table. Clint's family sat on one side, while Steve sat on the other; she took a seat next to Steve, smiling when he put his hand on her thigh, giving her leg a little squeeze. Clint brought the glasses over, setting one at his place and Steve's and offered one to Barney. "Nope, she poured it I bet; I got my coke." Barney lifted his red and white can. "I'm good." Clint let out a sigh and put the other wine glass back on the kitchen counter. Then brought over the two cups for the kids full of sparkling cider.

"Why do you hate Nat?" Steve asked as Clint began passing around the plates of food: fluffy white mashed potatoes, mashed yams with tiny marshmallows buried within, garlicy creamed spinach, savory stuffing, her pierogis, Laura's famous bourbon glazed carrots, green beans and fresh baked bread. Chatter had died down for the time being as everyone got their food situated, the only requests for certain times being requested. Barney sat back, watching everyone and on his plate was a turkey sandwich from Subways. "Are you going to answer my question?" Steve eyed Barney.

Clint's older brother shrugged. "You gonna say grace?" he asked. "Customary for a guest to lead in the prayer." He took Laura and Cooper's hands. Steve sighed, grabbing her hand and Clint's. She smiled and grabbed Lila's and the circled completed itself when Clint took Laura's.

Steve bowed his head. "O, bless us Lord for this meal we're about to share, the friends and family we keep, and all the good tidings you bring our way. May you protect us in our travels and endeavors, guide us with your wisdom, and bless us with your kindness and strength for the coming year ahead so we can all gather around this table again" — he sighed — "Amen." The closing word echoing around the table.

"That was beautiful Steve," Laura said, as everyone started to eat. Natasha beamed at Steve, noting a slight pink tint to his cheeks. "Did you make that up?"

"I have a knack for inspiring speeches," he said, ladling gravy over his turkey and potatoes. "Comes with the gig." He fixed his gaze on Barney. "I said grace, now give me an answer."

Barney smirked as he chewed. He swallowed and took a swig of his coke. "Come now, we're all friends here. Don't want to disappoint my baby brother and ruin this nice dinner his wife made."

"Which you aren't even eating," Steve pointed out. "Why?" Natasha nudged Steve's foot but he ignored the subtle queue and decided to keep pushing the subject. "You said it's because of Nat."

"Steve this may be better left alone until after dinner," Clint said, a nervous look passing across his face. Steve snorted like an enraged bull, shoving a fork full of turkey into his mouth. "And it's fine really."

"It's not Clint," Steve said, "he's being disrespectful." Barney took another bite of his sandwich, and Natasha felt as if Clint's brother was taunting Steve and that maybe it had been going on all night. Barney's reception of Steve had been rather _tepid_ at best.

"Why don't we just eat?" Laura said, glancing between the three men. "And after we finished eating, you can go out back and break bones" — she shrugged — "or chop some wood, either is acceptable to me."

"Sorry ma'am," Steve said, going back to his food. Barney chuckled, but he didn't raise to the bait, something Natasha was thankful for. The meal continued in this fashion for a few moments before it began to liven up. Cooper and Lila asking Steve for stories and he indulged them with some of his more amusing antics from his youth: many of them involving pulling pranks on the teacher. He shared some heroics too, telling Lila how he stood up to a bully picking on a little girl and how he saved Peggy Carter from an evil Hydra agent trying to run her over. Natasha beamed, knowing the stories only further cemented into Lila's young man that Steve was similar to the princes she read about in her favorite fairy tales.

The kids grew bored after about twenty minutes and they had eaten their fill. Laura allowed them to leave the table and the two youngsters went to living room, turning the tv on to _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Natasha nibbled on the last bits of meat still clinging to her turkey wing. With the children now gone, the tension between Barney and Steve flared up tenfold. "Why do you hate Natasha?" Steve asked. Never let it be said that Steve would give up on something; he was like a dog with a bone.

"You don't know who she is, do you?" Barney said, fixing his gaze on her. She set her wing down on her plate, folding her hands in her lap. This was why she didn't have social media. Not after she informed the world of her past. Shortly after Project Insight, when her face was hyper-recognizable, people had refused to serve her, some even yelled at her to go back to "Commie-land" and thrown things at her. She came back with a black eye once and Hill saw it. After that, the media had stopped showing her face or playing her standoff with the top brass on capitol hill. Most Americans had forgotten about it, her face bleeding into an endless sea of humanity. A few recognized her, but her driver's license and credit cards were all under the same alias: Nancy Hederman. Safer this way. If she ever needed to disappear there would be no trace of Nancy Hederman. Somethings were ingrained into her, and she wondered if Steve knew of the safe behind the mirror in her suite with her go-bag. "The Black Widow" — Barney glowered at her — "KGB agent, international criminal, on the top ten of several nations' most wanted lists, and a traitor to the government of the United States of America" — Barney leaned back and took a swig of his coke; he burped — "just waiting for the Justice Department to pull their heads out of their asses and hand me her arrest warrant" — he nodded at Steve — "yours too, F. Y. I."

Natasha bowed her head. Barney was a good man, a good FBI agent. He had turned his life around from his days as Trickshot in the Circus of Crime. Clint had even pulled some strings to get his criminal record expunge so Barney could join the FBI. It was because his little brother had stuck his neck (and career) out for him, that Barney took a serious upholding of the law: almost to a black and white zealousness. And even though she had acted in the best interest of the United States when she committed those crimes — especially Project Insight — to Barney, those were still crimes and she needed to be punished for them. "You know," Steve said, sliding the crush of his bread through the remains of his gravy. "If it wasn't for Natasha you wouldn't be an FBI agent. You'd probably have been killed by Hydra for opposing them. If it wasn't for Natasha, you'd probably be enslaved by the Chitauri — or butchered, with you I bet you're unlucky like that. Natasha is a hero," — Steve grabbed her hand — "she's selfless, amazing, wonderful. She has a big heart and cares about people and is willing to put her life on the line in order to protect them. If she has to skulk about in the shadows and break some laws in order to do so, she will. She's a hero."

"Steve," she whispered, blinking against the tears that stung at her eyes. Steve didn't say anything, just squeezed her hand. "It's okay." She was used to people hating her. Better to be hated than to be loved. Besides, she was used to it. Steve's unwavering faith in her and his unyielding love for her — it was so new that it was hard to get used to — it scared sometimes that he could feel this way towards her — that anyone could.

Barney snorted, crumpled up the Subway wrapper and stood. "Well, I'll be going little brother," he said, "have to head back down to DC. Might as well get an early start." He patted Laura on the shoulder as he walked past her. "Laura," he said and went into the living room to say goodbye to the kids. Clint breathed a sigh, leaning against the chair, a strange look on his face. Barney poked his head back in; Natasha arched a brow at him. "Tread lightly Romanoff, never know when the past will come around and bite you in the ass." He touched two fingers to his forehead in a mockery of a salute.

Steve snorted, tossing back the rest of his wine. "Natalia has class" — he side-eyed Barney — "naturally, she wouldn't want to step in any of your bullshit." He set his glass down with a soft _thunk_ on the table. Natasha swallowed, her training kept the color from her cheeks but failed to keep the warmth from pool in her belly. The way her birth named rolled off Steve's tongue with a faint hint of his Brooklyn drawl — arousing barely begun to describe it. A part of her wanted to haul him off to bed and make him purr her name over and over until they both were spent and sated. Everyone be damned.

Barney scowled, glaring at Steve. "I'd be careful if I were you Captain," he said and left before Steve or Clint could get a word in edge-wise.

"Well," Laura said, "that went better than I thought it would."

"Can I punch him?" Steve asked. Clint gave an amused snort and took a big long swallow from his wine glass. "Is that why two are estranged?"

Clint sighed, tracing the rim of his wine glass. "Yes and no. We never got along that well. Our dad… he used to hit us a lot. Barney stood up to him one day and" — Clint shook his head — "we left home after that night. The Circus of Crime found us, we both learned archery there, developed our skills to a razor edge." Clint looked at his hands. "I was deaf though, accident when I was a kid — at least that's what's on the medical record. Truth is, my dad hit me hard enough in the head one time I lost my hearing" — Clint gave a rueful snort — "the Circus did a heist, drew Shield's attention, and I ended up getting caught by Coulson. He spared me, and Peggy — Director Carter — had a few sharp words with me. Also put implants in" — Clint tapped the side of his head — "brought my hearing back; honestly I think she did that as revenge."

"He turns them off when he doesn't want to listen," Laura said, an amused smile on her lips. "And after that Clint became a Shield agent and the rest is history." She smiled.

"C'est la vie," Clint said and raised his glass. "But seriously Cap, don't worry about Barney. He's had a hard life and when he got the chance to turn it around, he took it and never looked back."

"I just wish people saw Natasha the way we do," Steve said, and looked at her. "As the beautiful wonderful woman, I'm madly in love with." Everyone stared at him; Steve squirmed in his seat. "Did I say that out loud?" he tried to pass it off as a joke, rubbing the back of his neck.

Clint and Laura laughed. "You're a sap," Natasha said, wiping her eyes and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you" — she downed the last sip of her wine — "you're sweet."

"Speaking of sweets" — Laura stood up — "who wants pie? I got pumpkin, blueberry and apple? Any takers? Kids — pie!"

"I want pie! I want pie!" Lila and Cooper shouted, rushing back into the dining room with lightning speed. "I want pie!" they shouted again. Laura laughed, Natasha got up and helped her dish out the pies. The six of them sat around eating their pie and sharing stories. The kids went back to the living room — Lila taking Steve by the hand and telling him about Oogie Boogie and how he was filled with icky bugs.

"Well, I'm done for the day," Laura said as Clint began to gather up the dishes. "You gonna help my poor husband clean?"

"I always do," Natasha said, helping Clint. Laura smiled, heading to the living room to sit with Steve and the kids. Clint and Natasha worked in silence: putting away the food, scrapping the scraps into the pig slop, wiping the counters and loading the dishwasher. Clint had his elbows up in soapy water, Natasha stood beside him with a microfiber cloth in hand as she dried the pots and pans and any other item that didn't go into the dishwasher. She hummed as she worked, imagining having Clint and Carol over for Thanksgiving at her and Steve's place next year. Her lips turned up into a smile.

"You're smiling," Clint said, nudging her hip with his. She scowled at him and tried to stomp his foot, laughing he twitched his foot out of reach. "What? Are you upset that I called you out on that?"

"No," she said, the girlish smile returning as she turned the wine glasses upside down on the drying rack. "I'm not." She picked up a pot, running the microfiber cloth along the inside. "I have appearances to keep."

"You know, I'm happy for you and Steve. Really, I am." Clint scrubbed the cast iron pan with a chainmail scrubber. The metal sshhhish-ed along, water slopping up around his calloused hands. "After what Matt did—"

"I punched him." Natasha put the pot in the drain board; it clanked against the other two already in there. The tv filled the silent void, a merry Christmas jingle echoing between them. Laura came in to make some tea and then went back out to send Cooper and Lila to bed.

"Really?" Clint picked at a spot on the cast iron pan and then deemed it ready to be dried, handing it over to her. Taking it, Natasha dried the pan quickly and set it on the stove top. "I thought you and he—"

"I'd punch Steve if he did something stupid." The glare she shot his way would quell a normal man, but Clint had known her since her early days — newly liberated from the Red Room's sinister clutches. "Matt's still a friend, I still care about him."

"I know." Clint patted her shoulder with a damp hand. "I'm just happy for you — Laura and I both." Clint handed her another clean dish to dry. "You should've seen Steve. Lila is his biggest fan — I don't think he even watched the game, cause he was playing princesses and tea parties with Lila."

"Really?" It was giggle-worthy, imagining Steve Rogers — muscular and manly — with one of Lila's plastic pink tiaras on his head, sipping invisible tea from a tiny plastic tea cup, acting all prim and proper and acquiescing to a little girl's princess fantasy. Clint nodded. "That's sweet."

"I took some pictures" — Clint smiled at her — "he'll make a good dad."

Natasha's smile faltered, her hand going to her barren womb — a curse forced upon her by the Red Room. While Steve said he wasn't sure if he wanted children, she couldn't imagine him _not_ wanting them. "Yeah," she said, her voice distant. "He will."

"Nat," Clint said, "don't — don't let your situation curtail what you want. You've overcome so much; you can overcome this. You have options."

"Like what Clint? In case you forgotten, the Red Room viewed pregnancy as some weakness. Something that needed to be _cured_ , like cancer." She set the dried dish on the counter, turning away from the sink, twisting the rag around her hands. "What options do I have? Do you seriously think an adoption agency will accept me as a potential parent or that some young mother will trust me enough to care for her baby with my past out there on the internet?"

"There's surrogacy," Clint said, "I know Laura wouldn't mind doing this for you. And if everything's fucked down there, you can get a donor egg and —"

"Then the child will only be Steve's, it won't be _mine_ too." She took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes with one hand. "I can't have children, Clint. I can't — I won't force Steve into that sort of partnership — if I can't give him what he deserves —"

"Why don't you let _him_ make that choice, Nat," Clint said, "instead of forcing it on him. I think you of all people would understand what it's like to have someone decide what's best for them. He knows of your situation, right?" She nodded. "And he still stuck around" — he smiled — "it seems to me that it's not _that_ big of an issue for him." Clint gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Why don't you go relax, you've been helping since you got here. I can finish the rest."

"You sure?" she eyed the rest of the dishes. Clint nodded.

"You got us a dishwasher, and it's been put to good use," he said and patted her shoulder. "Besides, I'm pretty sure that Steve needs some TLC." She laughed, smacking Clint with the rag, before setting it onto the counter and leaving the kitchen.

* * *

The living room was dim, with one lamp aglow and the rest of the space illuminated by the tv. It was playing _Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street_. Steve was laying on the couch, arms crossed and head resting on a pillow. "Hey," she said, leaning over the couch and running her fingers through his hair. A little smile graced his lips as he hummed. "You tired?" she brushed her thumb over his brow.

"A little" — a quirky smile twitched on his lips — "ate too much. Food coma." She laughed. "What?" She shook her head, walking around the couch and arched a brow. "Gonna make me move?" He scooched over, creating some space for her. She smiled, laying down next to him and sighing when he wrapped his arms around her, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head.

"Oh, shut up." A content sigh escaped her, Steve's hand slipping beneath her shirt, stroking the soft skin of her belly, occasionally his thumb brushed against the keloid that marked the place where Bucky shot her. Knowing that Steve viewed it as something worthy of being touched — it made her feel better about herself and about her past. "Are you sure you don't want to go to bed?"

"Nah" — he kissed her nape — "I'm good." He shifted, pulling her closer and she allowed herself to indulge in the warmth and safety of his embrace. Steve's breathing evened out after a few minutes, the movie a dull background white noise, the old black and white cinematography flashing across the screen. She didn't really understand what was going on, only knowing that it was a Christmas movie. It was interesting, whenever the movie broke for a commercial, to see the commercials in vivid 21st Century color: prompting apps and smartphones, old men telling the viewer to buy gold or this new modern super discreet hearing aid, products of major companies reminding viewers to follow them on various social media apps, cars — sleek and shiny and tricked out with the latest automobile computer systems — being advertised for zero down and zero interest for the next two or three years. Then the movie would return, the quality reverted back to the late 40s, black and white images and acting that reminded her more of a stage production than one meant for film — there was a certain _style_ of acting that the Golden Age of Hollywood had that the modern era lacked — and it was ever present in the movie compared to the materialistic driven commercials.

Laura and Clint eventually joined them, snuggling on the loveseat next to the couch. Clint with his cup of coffee and Laura with her cup of tea. The two of them signed as they watched the movie — a quirky little thing they did when they wanted to talk but not disturb anyone watching. Natasha felt her eyes drooping, Steve's grip around her tight and secure. She heard someone shift and Laura appeared in her field of view. "I just want you to know that I have you and Steve set up in the attic room," Laura said.

"Thanks," she said, an amused smile on her face. The attic room had a faulty heater that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't it. And one rickety old bed with a pile of quilts that Laura said her grandmother gave to her in a hope chest — also in the attic room. It wasn't the best spot in the house, but it certainly wasn't the worse. "I'll rouse the old man soon enough," she said, "get to bed."

"Okay, I'm going to shower," Laura said, walking towards the stairway. The stairs creaked as she climbed them, her footfalls fading into the distance. Natasha smiled, thinking that she and Steve may just end up sleeping in their clothes on the couch. It seemed like a good idea, and she didn't want to move, she was comfortable. Behind her Steve twitched in his sleep, pulling her closer and she could feel his lips pull into a frown against her nape. The movie switched to commercials and Steve's dream intensified. Natasha half-twisted to watch his face contort into a pained grimace, whimpers escaped him. She could hear him mumble _no no no_ over and over. Sweat started to bead at his brow.

"Steve," she whispered, reaching for his hip to jostle him. "Steve, it's me, Nat," she said and the sound of her voice seemed to soothe him as his whimpering stopped and the tightening grip on her body loosened. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention back to the tv. At some point, Laura came down in her fluffy robe. Clint passed on a shower; she called dibs on it and wiggled out of Steve's embrace, slipping a pillow into the empty space her body occupied. She kissed his cheek and went to take a quick shower.

* * *

The warm water unwound the tightness in her muscles, relaxing her into a warm happiness. She always enjoyed the softly scented body wash that Laura stocked the guest bathroom with. The bathroom had filled up steam in the fifteen minutes it took her to shower and brush her hair and teeth. As she gathered up her dirty clothes, she heard screaming. A high raspy sound that formed her name. Panic prickled her skin and she dropped her clothes, rushing out the door and down the hall into the living room. Clint was holding Steve's thrashing form to the couch — trying to at any rate, he was no match for Steve's serum enhanced strength. "Steve." Natasha rushed over to him, shoving Clint out of the way. She grabbed Steve's face. "Steve, lyubimiy, look at me," she said, trying to get Steve's vacant blue eyes to focus on her. "Steve, lyubimiy, look at me." Her voice was firm, gentle, and she stroked his cheeks and watched as his body relaxed, pupils constricting and the color returning to his pale cheeks. "That's it lyubimiy, that's it," she said. Tears spilled from his eyes and his arms snaked around her, hiding his face into the crook of her neck.

"You're okay… you're okay… you're okay…" he held her tight, shaking with each sobbing breath. "You're okay…"

Sam's words echoed forebodingly in her head. Steve's nightmares that shook him from sleep screaming her name, his reluctance to talk about them, and how they all stemmed from an abandoned Red Room facility in Siberia. "Steve?" she slipped her arms around him, rubbing his back. He made a whimpering sound, shaking his head; she sighed, kissing his cheek. "Let's go to bed," she said, pulling away from him — though she grabbed his hand, something about breaking contact with him right now felt _wrong_. He nodded and stood up. A part of her was shaken to the core; never before had she seen Steve so _broken_ — as if everything he ever held dear had shattered into dust. It scared her. Fear that wormed its way deep into her marrow, sending out its malicious tentacles to squeeze the light out of her soul. Steve break. Steve was the stalwart pillar of light and truth and all the goodness that had occurred in her life. If Steve could break — she closed her eyes, not wanting to think about that. She gave Clint and Laura an apologetic smile before leading Steve up to the attic room. She held onto Steve — tight until her knuckles turned white — as if her touch could ground him; keep him there and never ever let him go.

* * *

Once in the attic room, she watched Steve mutely change into a pair of sweat pants and a grey army shirt. Giving him an encouraging smile, she crawled into bed and patted the empty space besides her. Steve looked leery, but he crawled into bed nonetheless. Instead of wrapping her up in his embrace, he rolled on his side, back facing her. "Night," he said, voice soft — distant. Sighing, Natasha stared at the dark ceiling for several long moments, before spooning him. It felt a little weird: being so much smaller than him, with his broad chest pressed against her smaller one. Still, it felt nice being his jetpack and it seemed to help sooth him. Smiling, Natasha whispered, "Sladkiye mechty, lyubimiy." Pressed a kiss to Steve's nape and closed her eyes. It had to be a few minutes, maybe a little be longer when she felt Steve tense in her arms; a whimper escaping his throat. "Steve" — she shook him gently — "Steve, wake up."

He groaned, half rolling over to look at her with bloodshot eyes. "Nat?" He sounded confused and relieved. "You okay…"

"Yeah" — she smiled — "I am." She ran her fingers through his hair, and he turned, pillowing his head on her breasts, his arms around her waist. Maternally, she pressed a kiss to his brow. Steve sighed, relaxing in her arms. _He stopped hunting Barnes because of you, Natasha. I don't think you realize it but you mean more than anything to Steve — even more than Barnes — think about that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> The next chapter will be an Interlude focusing on Thor and Carol. :) 
> 
> Afterwards we'll return to our standard Romanogers goodness. 
> 
> Tootles
> 
> xoxoxo


	15. Interlude — Roots

_I bite down a little harder, my blades a little sharper. My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow. Strike back a little harder, I scream a little louder. My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow. I'm stronger than I ever knew, I'm strong because of you. I hit back a little harder. Fuck you a little harder. My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow. — In This Moment_

* * *

Snow had already fallen. A light dusting that covered the world in white. The legendary Massachusetts' winter already settling in on the region. It would be gone by afternoon tomorrow, a fleeting chilling memory — sometimes it was better not to remember things. Carol sighed, wondering why she even bothered coming here. It had been years since she last visited home — having run away a few weeks after she graduated high school to join the Air Force. Home, family — all things meant to be broken in her opinion. Thinking back on her childhood, it felt like her family was just five people coexisting together in the same house, pantomiming the actions of a real family. Maybe it was the naïveté of a child, but she believed that even though her family was broken love — love was perfect.

A few houses had Christmas lights already up, reminding Carol that her family never was close, that the holidays were a torturous demand for closeness. Why did her mother even invite her for Thanksgiving? Her dad was dead, Stevie too. Her brother Joe probably couldn't be bothered to come and visit. It wasn't like her mother _knew_ about her relationship with Thor and not once had Marie Danvers reached out to her after she left home to invite her back for the holidays. So why was her mother reaching out to her now? "It seems nice," Thor said. "This neighborhood."

Carol glanced at him, finding it amusing that his bulk didn't make the passenger side of the car feel smaller. He looked strange, in a maroon button down shirt and black jeans, his hair braided at the sides in twin braids, Mjölnir at his feet. "It's okay," she said, "we have a summer house up in Maine, but it's too cold for that right now." She turned into the cul-de-sac where her childhood home still sat, at the zenith of the curve, bleak and gloomy against the other festive houses with their giant inflatable turkeys and pilgrims. "Our summer house felt more like home than Boston did. Rules were different, my brothers and I could act like wild hooligans…" she trailed off, pulling into the driveway of her childhood home. They could act like hooligans up to a point and when they crossed the line, their father's hands came hard and painful, his voice sharp as a whip crack and cutting deeper than any knife. Her mother trying to stop her. It was in Maine that she had her first lesson in hatred — sharp and bright in her father's eyes.

"I'd like to see it," Thor said, "if you wish to show me." Carol gave him a smile as she turned the car off, noting the other car in the driveway, a beat up old jeep. Joe must've come anyway. "I wish to see more of your world, Carol. To see what brings that spark of light to your eyes."

"Thor" — she blushed, that warmth like ten thousand suns burning bright beneath her breast — "I'm not that special. Really." Thor laughed.

"You are to me, Carol." He lifted her chin and she saw the ageless depths of the universe reflected in his eyes. It always amazed her that he could be so gentle. The duality of nature: a fierce powerful storm one moment, a calm tranquil breeze the next. Mastering it — though in truth one would never be able to master nature fully — the challenge thrilled her. "You are to me."

"Well." She unbuckled her seatbelt. This is gonna be fun, she thought as she got out of the car and pulled her flight jacket around her tighter. The cold found a way inside regardless or maybe it was the bitter memories she didn't want to deal with. Family talk, feelings talk — bullshit she didn't need to deal with in her life. Nobody had noticed them yet, she could still leave. Fuck, she and Thor could just fly away if they wanted to. Maybe they could stop at some Chinese place and get take out, bring it to the moon and have a cosmic Thanksgiving miles away from Boston. Family didn't have to be a blood relation. A silhouette appeared in the window, then the door opened and her mother — in a burgundy sweater and blue jeans, her pale blonde hair pulled into a tail at her nape — came out onto the porch.

"You made it Carol!" Marie said, waving at her. Carol sighed, watching as Thor got out car, Mjölnir in hand as if he was ready to strike a foe. Carol frowned, walking around the car to lay a hand on Thor's arm. It bothered her that he was so tense, muscles tight beneath her palm.

"Thor," she said, her voice soft — soothing. "You don't need it, my mom's harmless." Thor adjusted his grip, the leather creaking along the pommel. It was an intense few seconds — Carol and Thor by the car while Marie stood on the porch — Thor sighed, allowing his hammer to slide through his fingers until they curled around the leather strap at the butte.

"I'll feel better if Mjölnir is at my side," he said. Carol sighed, patting his arm and nodding in understanding. "I'm sure your mother is a very sweet woman."

Her lips twitched. "Well, I don't know about that" — she took his hand and lead him towards her childhood home — "but she's nice." Carol hugged her mother. "Hi, Mom."

"It's good to see you Carol," Marie said, then fixed her attention on Thor. "And who's this young man? Didn't know you were dating a Viking."

Carol chuckled weakly, running a hand through her hair as Thor held out his hand. Viking — that didn't even begin to describe Thor. How would she break the news to her mother that she was dating an alien prince, who's entire culture was based off Norse mythology (or was it that Norse mythology was based off _Thor's culture_. Classic which came first: the chicken or the egg). "Donald Blake," Thor said, shaking Marie's hand. If her mother noticed that Thor's grip was stronger than most she didn't say or show it. And if Marie noticed the electric blue spark that burned for a heartbeat in Thor's blue eyes, she made no mention of it. "Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Danvers."

"Oh please" — Marie blushed, her wrinkle lined face lighting up as she let go of Thor's hand — "just call me Marie" — she turned to Carol — "where did you find such a polite young man?"

"Air Force." The lie came readily to her lips. "Don's a scientist on loan from Culver University. He's a colleague of Dr. Jane Foster" — Carol smiled — "you may have heard of her. She made some pretty amazing breakthroughs in astrophysics."

Marie nodded, a dull look in her eyes — a look of someone paying attention only to appear polite. "Oh I see" — she waved her hand dismissively — "you know me Carol. All that space stuff just goes right over my head." She laughed and waved them towards the door. "C'mon in. Ham's just about done."

Carol walked in, kicking off her shoes and hanging up her jacket. She took a deep breath, remembering the smells of childhood: the crisp springs, the blazing hot summers, the blustery autumns and the frigid winters — the scents of flowers, lemonade, apples and sugar cookies — all mingling in her mind. It felt like a life time ago that she was a girl. Between the Air Force and being kidnapped by the Kree, becoming an Avenger — too many adventures for one lifetime. "Is that—"

"Yup," Marie said, "a blueberry peach buckle with extra brown sugar for dessert" — she kissed Carol's cheek — "I know you like it sweetie."

Carol smiled, following her mother into the kitchen. The table was set, four places with the side dishes already on the table, wine glasses half full of red wine. "Nice set up," she said, "who —"

"I did little sis," a young man said with blond hair and blue eyes. He tugged at a grey polo shirt. "Didn't think you'd make it beans." He opened his arms for a hug, but Thor's arm blocked her path.

"Don," she said, lowering Thor's arm. "It's just my brother JJ." She walked into her brother's embrace. "Missed ya big brother."

"It's just Joe now," he said, "and you wouldn't have to miss me so much if you bothered to come around once in a blue moon." He let her go and glanced at Thor. "That's—"

"My boyfriend," she said, "Donald Blake." Thor held out his hand and Joe took it. The wince on her brother's face told her that Thor didn't bother holding back much of his strength. Thor let go, beaming beatifically at Joe as if nothing was amiss.

"Uh… hi." Joe shook his hand out, flexing his fingers. "Got a grip." Joe nodded. "Pops always said you can tell a lot about man by the grip of his handshake." Joe gestured to the table and Carol sat down. Thor joined her and Joe did as well as Marie brought the glistening ham to the table. It smelled of honey and cloves, the meat roasted to a savory perfection. Brown sugar melted and crusted on the skin.

"This looks amazing, Mom," she said, as she began piling mashed potatoes and yams onto her plate and Thor's. Joe took the carving knife and began slicing thick slabs of ham, giving everyone two each. Thor poked his food with a fork. Marie smiled and for a brief moment, the four of them were consumed with settling into dinner, dishes being passed around. Only compliments on the food being uttered between them. Carol sighed, enjoying the sweet porky taste of ham on her tongue. It reminded her of Thanksgivings past: when her Uncle Richie would come down from Maine to celebrate, before her father became a violent drunk, before her brother Stevie died — before the Kree, the Avengers — when life was simple and carefree.

"So where you from Don?" Marie asked after a few silent minutes. Carol swallowed, eyeing Thor and hoped to God he remembered the story they had hashed out on the way down from New York — rather the story she told him to memorize.

"Moose Lake, Minnesota," he said, a wide grin on his face. "My family has lived there for four generations. We run a small bed and breakfast called the Hall of Odin." He shoved a bite of ham into his mouth. "This is delicious. Did you slay the boar today for this celebration?"

"What Don means," Carol said, jumping in before her family could question Thor's strange choice of words, "is that he wants to know if you went to the grocery store and _bought_ " — she gave Thor a sharp look — "it today?"

Marie's eyes grew wide. "Oh no," she said, "no. I bought this last week and kept it in the freezer. Pulled it out two days ago to let it defrost." She took a bite of mashed potatoes. "Glad you like it Don."

"So do you hunt in Moose Lake?" Joe asked. "Since you mentioned slaying boars" — he waved his fork around — "and all that."

"Aye!" Thor nodded, his grin widening. "My brother and I have slain many deer in Moose Lake. As well as moose and giant —"

"—elk," Carol said, stepping on Thor's foot; he winced. "Giant elk. You should see them JJ. Huge things. I don't think the antlers on those bulls could fit through the door. Don's pretty handy with a .22."

"I've never been hunting," Joe said, "fishing — done that plenty of times over the summer." He grinned. "This one summer — I think you were ten, Beans, or maybe twelve, and you got a lobster and it pinched her nose. You swore worse than Uncle Richie."

"I remember that," she said, "also remember Pops grabbing me by the hair and washing my mouth out with soap for saying those things." And just like that the mood dampened. Bad memories had a funny way of catching up with a person. The shadow that was her father always seemed to loom over her, like a dark storm cloud she just couldn't shake. Probably why she rarely visited her family. Family brought back the memories — memories she rather forget. A hand fell on her hand; she looked at Thor and entwined her fingers with his. Having him here made this entire thing tolerable; as if he was lending her hid immense strength.

"Yeah." Joe looked down at his food, Marie sighed and Thor took a long swallow of his wine. The conversation came to an unnatural stop, all four members more focused on their food. It always ended up like this, she thought, different people existing within the same four walls, with only the thinnest of connections. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. After a few more torturous minutes Joe began to clear the dishes. Feeling awkward, she helped, gathering up the half eaten side dishes and taking them to the kitchen where she put them away in the fridge. "So where did you meet a guy like Don, Beans?" Joe asked, carrying the platter the ham was on.

"Air Force," she said. "Meet all sorts of people in the Air Force."

"So that's what happened." Joe began wrapping the ham up in plastic wrap. "After you graduated."

"Yeah," Carol said, "it did." The clean-shaven Air Force sergeant agreeing to help her get into the Air Force's ROTC program at Boston University. Bootcamp — men and women yelling at her, pushing her to her limits, tearing her down and calling her names. A wildness in her blood boiling over, pushing her to go further, run faster, fly higher. _You're the best damn pilot I've ever see, Danvers, but because you're female_ — _test pilot._ The slight burned, even if it brought her under the tutelage of Mar-Vell — to the Kree and Yon-Rogg and later the Avengers. _You aren't gonna amount to anything Beans. Women don't belong in school. They belong in the kitchen._ "Best damn thing that ever happened to me."

"Huh." Joe stuck the ham in the fridge. "Did you do it to prove Pops wrong?" Carol snorted, nostrils flaring and she curled her hands into fists. "Or did you do it so get away from us? From your family, cause you thought you were better than Stevie and me?"

"You're one to talk, Joe," she said. "What about all your grand dreams of—"

"I learned that dreams are for chums. Made my living with my hands, working on roofs with Pops." Joe jabbed her in the chest. "You should've just settled for becoming a housewife. Heard Little Louis Lee had a crush on you, a bad one by the sound of it."

Carol smacked her brother's hand away from her chest. "If you ever learn one thing about me JJ, is that I don't just 'settle'." She headed back to the dining table. The atmosphere in the dining room wasn't any better than the kitchen. It felt tense, static prickled the small hairs on her nape, she could feel the zap of electricity between her teeth. A storm about to break. She sat next to Thor, noting Mjölnir on his lap. Her mother looked tense too, in the way a warrior did before a fight: coiled like a spring and ready to attack. "What's going on?" she asked, wondering why her boyfriend and mother were staring at each other like two wolves over a scrap of meat.

"What's the Kree doing here, Carol?" Thor asked, nodding at Marie. Carol frowned, looking between her mother and Thor. This had to be a joke. She was the only one in the room with any connection to the Kree.

"What are you talking about, Thor," she asked (aliases be damned), "I'm the only one with connection to the Kree." Thor stood up, the lights flickering and she could hear the low rumble of thunder outside, electricity arched across Thor's fingers, his grip on Mjölnir white knuckle tight. "Thor?"

"I demand to know what brings you here, _Kree_ ," Thor said, "as Thor, Prince of Asgard" — he lifted his hammer and pointed it at Marie's chest — "this realm is under my protection. So what say you: why are you here?"

"Mom?" Carol asked, looking at her mother. Marie sighed, pulling out a cylindrical shaped pendent from beneath her sweater. Glowing gold at the pendant's heart was the starburst of Hala; Carol's eyes grew wide as Marie yanked it off, and the cloaking vanished. The turquoise, silver and black of a Kree uniform adorn her mother. "What the hell!"

"Carol, I —" Marie twisted away from the hammer that came hurling towards her. "In my house?" her eyes narrowed, fists aglow. "Bold of you Asgardian."

"Where is Marie Danvers?" Thor bellowed, rain hammering against the windows and thunder shaking the house; he stepped between Marie and Carol as his Asgardian armor materialized, red cloak rippling in the wind that surrounded him. "What have you done with her Kree?"

"Don't you get it, you oaf?" Marie stood straighter. " _I am_ Marie Danvers." She looked at Carol. "Carol, please… let me explain."

"Explain?" Carol snapped, stepping out from behind Thor. It felt difficult to breathe, like a great weight was on her chest. Everything seemed wrong, yet looking back on her childhood it almost felt _right_ , as if she always had known something like this would happened. It explained so much: why she always felt different, why she always waited for her parents to tell her she was adopted, why her father treated her differently (and not just because she was a girl), why she always felt that burning restlessness that bubbled in her blood. "Explain what?" Though right now she just felt like she was falling, burning up in the atmosphere, her entire world crashing down around her. Her entire identity vaporizing before her eyes; sand slipping through her fingers. If her mother was Kree — the revelation felt dirty — then she was no longer a human augmented by a freak accident with Kree DNA. She _was_ Kree.

"Your birth," Marie said, "my past" — she looked at Thor and then at Joe, who peeked around the corner from the kitchen — "my name is Mari-Ell. I'm a daughter of Hala, by birthright and by starlight. I was appointed the youngest captain in Intelligence Empress Pam'a's —"

"Wait," Carol interrupted. "Intelligence Empress? What happened to the Supreme Intelligence? The ruler of Hala and the Kree Empire." Did Yon-Rogg lie? Most likely, she wouldn't put it pass the snake, then again she always felt that there was more to the Kree than he ever told and that she learned during her six years of captivity.

"The Supreme Intelligence is our technological ruler," Marie said. "Empress Pam'a is our military ruler, she oversees the Kree Empire. Both she and the Supreme Intelligence are the rulers of the Kree Empire. To halves of a whole." Marie sighed, sitting down and folding her hands in her lap. "I was sent to Earth on a top secret mission. I crash landed in Boston — right into your father's life" — Marie smiled — "I followed my training, assimilated and kept my powers secret. But something happened that neither I nor the Kree factored into our plans."

"And what is that?" Carol asked, nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists tight. "Pray tell _mother_."

"Oh Carol," Marie sighed, "I should've told you all this years ago."

"Ya think?" Carol snapped. "You're telling me I'm… I'm half-Kree?" Marie nodded. "No…"

"It's true, Carol. I fell in love with your father, I got pregnant with you, we got married. And I traded in my life as Mari-Ell, warrior of Hala for the life of Marie Danvers, your mother." She reached for her daughter, but Carol took a step back shaking her head. If Thor hadn't been standing behind her, if his strong steady hand hadn't come go rest on her shoulder — Carol was sure she would have fallen down. She grabbed his hand and held it, clutching him like a rock in a storm tossed sea. "Your birth name — the name I gave you — is Car-Ell. It means _Champion_ in Kree."

"My name is _Carol_ ," she said, tears stinging her eyes. "Not Vers, not Car-Ell. It's _Carol_. Carol Susanne Jane Danvers — that's my name!" she shouted, her body trembling with a maelstrom of emotions, chief among them was betrayal. Marie hung her head. The sight of her mother caused bile to rise in her throat. Carol looked away, hiding her face in Thor's chest. Nobody would see the hot tears on her cheeks. Tears of pain… and betrayal.

"It's why your father…"

"Never loved me?" Carol asked, glowering at her mother. She sniffed, wiping away her tears. "Treated me like I was scum of the earth because I was born a girl?" All the abuse she endured at her father's hands, the silent disgust in his eyes, the drunken rages she dodged and locked herself in her room to escape. Marie shook her head.

"He loved you Carol. Too much maybe," she said, "after you were born, I cut off all contact with Hala. I'm probably branded a traitor" — Marie shrugged — "you were worth it I thought. Joe — your father — he swore to protect you, from an enemy he didn't know how to fight, from an enemy he didn't know when it would strike. He crawled into a bottle to deal with the stress of it all and I'm sorry he took it out on you the most, but he loved you. He really did."

The drying tear tracks on her cheeks itched. "Had a funny way of showing it." Carol folded her arms over her chest. "Refusing to send me to college, telling me I'm just better off in the kitchen. Always telling me what I can't do — he never once supported me. Not once."

"Oh Carol" — Marie stood up, reaching for her but Thor leveled Mjölnir at Marie's chest and pulled Carol closer to him — "I pawned my wedding ring to try and get money for your tuition but you… you'd left already."

"Best damn thing I ever did in my entire life," she said. "So what? I have these powers — the reason why the Kree took me and held me captive for six years — is because you're my mother?"

"You're powers are Kree, genetic. Not however you think you got them. I doubt when the Kree first came into contact with you they understood who or what you were."

"Mar-Vell did," Carol said, remembering how on that first spacewalk with Mar-Vell — when he told her he was from another planet — that he had gently removed her helmet and kissed her. "Mar-Vell knew I was _different_."

Marie nodded. If her mother recognized the name Mar-Vell, Carol couldn't tell. "Our powers are triggered around adolescence, normally due from a battle-rush, a great spike in adrenaline."

Carol's eyes widened, everything clicking into place: shooting the core of the Psyche-Magnetron, the waves of energy washing over her as Mar-Vell tried to shield her with his body, seeing the vastness of space before her eyes and feeling each cell in her body bursting like a supernova. "I'm leaving," she said, turning around and heading to the door.

"Carol, please — there's… there's so much I need to tell you. About me, about you, about our family—"

"All things you should've told me years ago, Mom. It's too late now. I don't care," she said, "I hate this family. I hate everything about this family. Being made to feel different for my entire life only to find out I'm some alien hybrid!"

"Carol" — Marie grabbed her, pulling her to a stop — "You have more than just a human family. You have a family on Hala. _I_ had a family on Hala. A life I left behind for my mission" — Marie swallowed — "Carol, you have a half-sister on Hala. Lauri-Ell, my daughter… your _sister_ , Car-Ell."

A fear invisible hand wrapped around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Carol trembled, with rage or something else, she didn't know nor did she care. "No" — she pointed at her mother — "I'm done. I'm done with you. I'm done with Joe. I'm done with the entire fucking lot of you." She stormed out of the house, feeling the cold wind whip against her face. It took only a thought to change her clothes from her sweater and jeans to her Captain Marvel uniform and to summon her binary corona, the golden light arching around her entire body, eyes aglow; she fixed her sights on the moon and leapt, speeding towards the heavens, into the atmosphere. The Earth tried to keep her grounded, but she put on a burst of speed, breaking free of the planet's gravitational pull. She turned around, staring at the blue orb that was her home. Tears glittered — frozen and beautiful — around her face. She choked on her sobs, chest tight as she struggled to make sense of it all.

Strong arms wrapped around her, a steady heartbeat thumped against her ear, the sharp zing of electricity sparking through her hair. She looked up; Thor had jointed her, sadness in his blue eyes. "I imagine this is how Loki had felt when he discovered he was a frost giant." Thor sighed. "He didn't say anything, but I saw the rage and… pain in my brother's eyes. I think he blamed me too." He pressed a tender kiss to her brow. "I didn't know. I didn't know."

Carol pulled away, sniffing and looked at the grey orb of the moon. It seemed so much larger than it did on earth. An eldritch alien world. "I want to be alone right now Thor."

"But Carol—" he began.

"No" — she shook her head — "please. I'll come home, I promise, but I need to be alone. To process everything, to figure out who I am now. How being half-Kree changes me and my place in the world."

"You are an Avenger, Carol. This new revelation about your family doesn't change that. It doesn't change the goodness in your heart, how you care for your friends" — he cupped her face — "you are the fiercest warrior I've ever know. I've lived centuries and known countless warriors, you eclipse them all." He smiled taking her hands. "And you've won the heart of the Prince of Asgard. Kree or not, 'tis you whom I love, Carol Danvers."

The tears burned at the corners of her eyes; even her binary corona failed to keep the vacuous chill of space from reaching her bones. "Thor, please" — she smiled sadly at him — "I need to be alone."

Thor nodded. In his eyes she saw understanding, frustration at being rejected but understanding nonetheless. He took her hand and kissed her palm. "I wait for you at home."

She smiled and hugged him tight. "I love you too, and… thank you." She pulled away and kissed him, before watching him return to earth, red cap rippling in the solar wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> This is an interlude chapter. I've been wanting to write my own version of Carol learning ber true ancestry for a while. 
> 
> This does contain spoilers for The Life of Captain Marvel and some upcoming Captain Marvel issues and Marvel's Empyre arch. (Lauri-ell, Carol Danvers' half-sister Kree warrior, who is set to make her debut in Captain Marvel #18. You can google her for the CBR article, but she's canon). 
> 
> The next chapter will be number 15 and we will return to Nat and Steve. :3
> 
> Save an author; leave a review. 
> 
> Tootles!
> 
> xoxoxox


	16. Mercy Mirror

_My heart like a planet the sun forgot. Where now? Orbiting the light that I had lost. More than words is silence, teaches how to see and to feel what is real when sunlight reaches my soul? So look in my mercy mirror, I need you more than I have known. So look in my mercy mirror, cause I'm not ready to let you go. — Within Temptation_

* * *

A wolf howled. The snow covered alpine forest stretched as far as the eye could see. Iron grey mountains reached their jagged fingers towards a foreboding sky. Pines — dark and brooding — drew in closer. Ice sliced soft skinned feet; beads of ruby leaving a ruddy trail. Cold. So cold. The young woman shook, pulling the thread bare blanket tight around her thin frame. Hair damp, icicles clinging to vermillion strands, bloodshot eyes fixated on a distant point on the horizon. Rivulets of crimson seeping down her thighs. Snowflakes alighted on her cheeks, misty breath puffing out with each step. Cold. So cold.

Behind her came the hungry pants, vicious snarls, brooding red eyes lingering at the edge of the trees. They watched, waiting for her to stumble — to make a mistake — so they could strike. Snow crunched beneath their paws, their howls echoing across the frozen wasteland, urging her tired weaken body onwards. Somewhere in the distance she heard her name — a plea for help. It spurred her onward, yet the shadows stalked her, black tentacles reaching for her ankles. Hissing whispers echoed in her ears.

 _Monster. Whore. Killer. Murderess. You have no place. You belong nowhere. Blood_ — _innocent blood_ — _soaking your hands._

Heart pounding, breath labored; she ran and the shadows gave chase — snarling and snapping — heavy paws crunching the snow. She ran towards the distant voice, the one calling her name. The wind picked up, whining in her ears and snowflakes obscuring her vision until all she saw was a blizzard of blinding white. Snow and ice swirled around her, black shades with red eyes lurking just behind her vision. Their darkness swirled around her, hissing at her, reminding her of her faults.

 _Nikolai_ — _dead._ A shadow lunged at her, phasing right through her and chilling her to the bone. _Your fault. Rose_ — _dead_. Another lupine shadow racked her with its claws, freezing her soul. _Your fault. Alexi_ — _dead_. A third leapt at her, knocking her into the snow and pulling away her blanket, exposing her naked body to the artic cold. Shivering, she pushed herself to her hands and knees, panting and shivering as the pack circled her, snarling and yipping as they closed in for the kill. _James_ —

"Not dead," she whispered, looking up at the shadows, wisps of black flickering along their silhouettes. "James isn't dead and neither is Matt" — she licked her lips, tasting blood and snow — "nor Steve."

The shadows laughed, cruelty in their red eyes. _Matter of time, little spider, matter of time. The widow's curse: All who love her will perish. Matter of time._ They lunged at her, reminding her of her victims, the blood on her hands, the people she dared to love — dead, because of her. The distant voice that called her name grew fainter; her sobs and screams drowning it out. The ghastly wolves tore at her flesh. She curled into a fetal position, sobbing.

"Please… please stop…" she whispered as the wolves continued their vicious attack. "Steve… Steve" — she screamed as a wolf closed its jaws around her throat — "help me…"

Natasha woke up with a shuddering gasp. A quick pat of the other side of the bed informed her she was alone. It wasn't unusual for Steve to wake before her — though it was still dark outside the window. His serum allowed his body to require less sleep than the average adult. To a degree so did she — as her serum's chemical blueprint was the serum used on him. Maybe it was the nightmares, the darkness that wouldn't leave his mind or maybe he just felt tense sleeping at Clint's. "Steve," she called out into the darkness. No answer. "Steve?" she called a little bit louder, straining her ears for any sound in the night. The skritch-scratch of a tree branch outside the window sent a shiver down her spine. Shivering, she pulled the quilts around her tighter. "Steve?" she called again. The door creaked open and he stumbled in, rubbing one eye.

"Mm?" he gave her a sleepy smile. "What's wrong?" he asked as he approach the bed. Natasha bit her lip, shaking her head and laid back down as he crawled into bed. She swallowed, staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the darkness, trying to relax. The nightmare had left her tense, muscles coiled spring-tight. A soft whimper escaped her throat; the hot sting of tears burning at the corner of her eyes. "Nat?"

"Nothing," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Just woke up and you weren't there." Got scared. She glanced at him, has he hugged the pillow. Pride goeth before the fall — or so they say. It was easier to talk about letting go of pride than actually doing it. A quick sigh escaped her and she placed her hand on Steve's shoulder.

"Hm?" he cracked one eye open — stellar blue in the darkness.

"Can" — she swallowed, body trembling; admitting to weakness, to needing comfort had been something that was punished in the Red Room. Weakness was failure, and failure wasn't tolerated. A few tears leaked from her eyes, he reached out and brushed them away and she leaned into his touch — "hold me?" she asked.

Steve lifted his arm. "C'mere," he said and shesnuggled into his warmth, burrowing herself into his embrace. The steady lub-dub sound of his heartbeat soothed her, chased away the shadow wolves of her imagination. He huffed, running his fingers through her hair — a secret comfort she'll never admit to.

"Sorry," he said, voice thick with sleep, "had to take a piss." He dropped a kiss to her brow. "Go back to sleep." His breathing evened out; the house creaked and groaned, the heater rumbled into mechanical life. The bare branch outside their window beat against the house with each gust of wind, the tips clawing at the siding. She took a shuddering breath, willing her body to relax, focusing on uncoiling each muscle and tendon. Slowly, she allowed herself to go back to sleep.

* * *

When she awoke some time later, Steve was gone. Pale dusty light seeped through the window. Groaning, she hauled herself out of the luxurious warmth of the bed and wrapped a robe around herself, slipping her feet into a pair of slippers. On cat-silent feet she padded through the house, eyes scanning for Steve. The downstairs and kitchen were empty. No sign of Steve. Since she was up, she made a pot of coffee. The roasted earthy aroma drifted through the house. Natasha poured two cups and went outside onto the porch. There, sitting on the frost covered deck chair was Steve. "Coffee?" she handed him the cup filled with the black liquid.

"Thanks." He took a sip, wrapping his large hands around the warm mug. It had snowed during the night, dusting the world in pristine white. Silver mist curled just above the ground, two deer walked across the far field and somewhere in the quiet an owl hooted, the foreboding call echoing through the trees. The world held it's breath, calm — like the heartbeat before the executioner's axe came down on a guilty neck — waiting to die.

"Laura's pregnant." She sat next to him, sipping her coffee and watching the deer. Steve pushed against the porch, rocking the swing. It creaked, the unoiled and frozen hinges protesting. The sound felt loud in the early morning gloaming; sundering the sleepy autumn stillness.

"Oh." He stroked the rim of his mug. "You must happy." A tiny smile graced his lips. "Another little one to play Auntie Nat too." He took a sip of coffee. "Lila seems to be my biggest fan" — he winked at her — "how much do you think we can pay Clint to adopt her?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm a little jealous." A flock a geese honked southward over head. The cloud cover obscured them, still Natasha tilted her head skywards, trying to catch a glimpse of the birds in their familiar wedge formation.

"Understandable." He rocked the swing again. A bright red cardinal landed on the railing, fluffed itself, and then flew away. Something spooked the deer in the field. They leapt towards the forest, white tails bobbing with each hop. A cold gust of wind chilled them and she scooted closer to Steve, smiling when he wrapped an arm around her. "So, is there anything to do around here?"

"There's a winter farmer's market in the town nearby" — she took a sip of coffee — "thought we could go and do that. It's fun. All sorts of vegetables, nuts, and canned goods. Stuff you can sell during the winter. Plus crafts. The artisans around here have some really amazing work."

He nodded as he took a sip of coffee, hand sliding down her arm to entwine her fingers. "Sounds like fun. I wouldn't mind doing that." He grinned. "I'm an old man, I like things like that." She laughed, as he pressed his nose into the crown of her head. They snuggled for a moment, enjoying the silence of the morning, their breaths puffing out and mingling with the steam of their coffee. A raven flew across the field, its raspy caw echoing through the morning stillness. As the sun climbed, the ice sparkled like ten thousand diamonds on each blade of grass. The gold and orange with the twinkles of ice took her breath away. Despite autumn heralding the coming of winter, she was still surprised that nature could craft such beauty out of death.

"She was my daughter," Natasha said after a while. The golden rays of the new day sun peeked through the trees, banishing the shadows. In spite of the brilliant light, the warmth failed to reach the ground. It felt like a cold mockery.

Steve stiffened besides her and looked at her, flummoxed. "Who?"

Natasha stared into the pale brown liquid in her cup. "Rose." She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "I was sixteen… her father and I — we ran away from the Red Room. Got to Ukraine. She was so tiny when she was born" — Natasha leaned her face into his chest — "I still remember how much it hurt — giving birth — but when I heard her cry" — she looked at Steve, a proud sad smile on her face — "I knew it was worth it. And then I killed her." She took two long swallows from her cup. "After that the Red Room found me, took me back and sterilized me."

The silence settled in between them once more, the sun peeking over the trees. The frost glimmered. The cardinal returned, chirped and fluffed itself up against the cold before flying off in the opposite direction. "The night Bucky died" — Steve twisted his lips — "well… fell from the train. Peggy found me trying to get drunk. I wasn't drunk. Couldn't get drunk." He sipped his coffee. "Love and grief are really similar. I — we made love that night." He huffed out a breath. "When I found her after the ice, we talked about that night" — he looked down — "she miscarried twelve weeks later."

"Oh Steve" — she cupped his cheek — "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he said, looking out at the field. "It's better this way. Imagine growing up knowing believing your father is dead and then seventy years later you find out he's alive?" He shook his head. "No. It's this way" — he smiled at her — "everything happens for a reason right?" He chuckled. "Can you imagine it? You're sixty-something and this twenty-something looking guy shows up on your doorstep claiming to be your father?" He sipped his coffee and rocked the swing again. "Guaranteed heart attack. And this is coming from me. I'm about to hit a hundred soon." He shook his head, a wistful unbelieving expression on his face. "Never thought I'd live to be a hundred."

She gave him a rueful smile. "Still… I know how much you wanted a life with Peggy and to know you two almost had a child… I—"

"No." His first was firm, and he tipped her chin up to hold her gaze. "No, Natalia" — she licked her lips and shivered — "Peggy _is_ my past. You are my future. I realized that. I think I always knew she was my past ever since I visited her the first time after I got out of the ice. I think I knew even back then that we weren't meant to be" — he sipped his coffee, the sun illuminated the field, glittering with melting frost. A few brave birds twittered in the trees, eulogizing their last lament to the summer sun — "Guess a part of me knew that I was in denial, refused to accept things as they are because I was afraid… still am a bit" — he smiled at her — "but I'm also happy now. I'm happy with you."

"Steve."

"Ever think about having this?" he asked, gesturing towards the landscape. "Settling down?"

"No… maybe, I don't know," she said. "A part of me thinks that there will be an after — when the world is at peace, but I know that will never happened. I guess the reason why I never entertained the idea of settling down is because I never saw myself spending the rest of my life with anyone" — she shrugged, resting her head on his shoulder — "Matt was the closest but…"

"He didn't feel _right_?"

"Yeah." She blinked, listening to the sounds of nature, the autumnal morning coming to life, a final hopeful gasp of the dying.

"And me?"

She lowered his chin with one finger, kissing him. "Is it too early in whatever this is to say I love you?"

He smiled, kissing her. "No. It's not."

"Good" — she nodded — "cause I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose what we have. When I think about what we have I think maybe… maybe I can finally stop running, finally have a moment's peace." She closed her eyes. "A chance to breathe and just be _me_."

Steve didn't say anything, just pulled out his phone and opened up the Wikipedia page about him. Half way down the article was an old sepia image of a skinny young man in Army pants and a plain white t-shirt, dog tags around his neck. Natasha gave a bemused smile as she took in the knobby knees and elbows and the wire thin frame. "Who… is that you?" she asked, looking at Steve. The contrast was remarkable: the man next to her was tall, muscles bulging beneath his skin, no knobby knees and elbows nor wire thin frame. The man in the photo was thin and small, sallow and exhausted.

"Yup." There was a hint of nostalgia in his tone. "I was twenty-four when I signed up… when I agreed to have a German scientist use me as a guinea pig. Back then… settling down just didn't seem that important, especially when you had girls looking at you like you're something they could step on."

"Steve… you aren't… I mean you still are… I…" she stopped, unsure what to say. She knew the stories. Skinny sickly Steve Rogers, too boneheaded to accept his little red wagon and collect scrap metal. Kept trying to enlist until Dr. Erskine found him and agreed to let him in. Project: Rebirth was well known in both Russia and the United States. "You were still worthy of love — even back then."

With a flick of his thumb, he closed the Wikipedia article and tucked his phone back into the pocket of his robe. "So are you, Nat," he said, "maybe more than me. But my point is that… at one time I never thought I'd live to see my thirtieth birthday, get married or even have kids. After Project Rebirth I thought I could have it with Peggy."

"Then the ice."

"Yeah" — he rubbed his jaw — "but I'm lucky enough to have it again. And this time it just feels _right_." The wind blew, sending shivers down her arms. The empty mug in her hands had little heat left to it. She stood up, holding out her hand to him. He arched a brow.

"Let's go back to bed," she said, wiggling her fingers. "I'm cold." He grinned, wagging his brows as he down the rest of his coffee and stood up, taking her hand. She shifted to her tiptoes and pecked his lips, tasting the coffee on his tongue. Warmth spread through her body, down to her toes and Steve lead her back into the house and to their bedroom. They fell into each other's embrace. Lips and hands mapping out the contours and divots of their bodies; breath and limbs tangling as teasing touches left searing trails in their wake. When Steve slid into her — hard and thick and hot — Natasha knew that this time felt _different_. There was nothing rushed about their coupling. In fact, it took on a poetic languidness, each thrust filling her up to her fullest — she felt complete as if she and Steve had become one. There was a spirituality as well, as if her soul was being baptized, all her sins melting away. When she climaxed — a starburst of sensations rapid firing along taut nerve-endings — she saw what divinity looked like in that single drawn out heartbeat and for a moment she free fell into ecstasy; Steve's low groans echoing at the edge of her hearing. A maelstrom of emotions swelled in her breast, like the rising tide and crashed down upon her like a tsunami. Tenderly, Steve kissed away her tears and when she held his face in her hands she felt his tears and wiped them away. A smile — like the first sunrise of spring — broke upon her face and she finally understood redamancy. "Love you," she whispered, running her hand along his jaw, feeling the thick stubble that had grown in. "You really need to shave."

He laughed, pulling out of her and spooning against her. "Serum. Everything grows faster. At least my skin doesn't break out in hives from shaving so much." He ran his hand up along her belly and covered one of her breasts. She closed her eyes, enjoying the physical contact between them. How he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck, leaving lingering kisses against her skin. It was a reprieve and a promise of more. She hummed, arching against him when he gave the breast he fondled a gentle squeeze as his other hand snaked beneath her and cradled her opposite hip. Wrapped up in his warm strength — as skilled a fighter as she was — she never felt safer than in that moment. A moan escaped her throat as he sucked on her shoulder, giving her a soft nip. "Mine." The possessiveness in his tone set shivers down her spine and stoked anew the fire in her loins.

"Yours," she agreed, tilting her head back and nuzzling his cheek. He smirked, kissing her and pulling her closer to his body. She arched a leg, encouraging him to maneuver into place. He did; the anticipation building. She whimpered in delight when he slid home again, this angle striking all the right spots and Steve thrust into her in a more urgent tempo, one he knew she'd revel in. Their hot pants and pleasurable moans masked the sound of squeaky hinges.

"Auntie Nat, is Uncle Steve hurting you?" Lila asked.

Natasha would take the secret that she screamed to her grave. "What the hell!" Natasha rammed her elbow into Steve's gut, trying to disentangle herself from him without lifting the blanket. If Clint or Laura learned that they traumatized their daughter — she'll never hear the end of it. "Lila, sweetheart, what are you doing up?" she asked, reaching over the side of the bed and pulled on her shirt. "You should be in bed."

Lila hung her head, clutching her stuffed lion toy. "I had a bad dream," she said, "and I wanted to snuggle with Mommy and Daddy but they were sleeping so I came to you!" Lila beamed at her. "Cause you're super scary and even the monsters wouldn't dare mess with ya." Lila closed the gap between herself and the bed with a small hop and climbed in, snuggling against Natasha's chest. "Are you gonna answer my question Auntie Nat?"

Not really. "And what question would that be my little bluebird?" she ran her fingers through Lila's soft hair, enjoying the fruity almost candy scent of the children's shampoo Laura bought for the kids. Steve grunted behind her. She cocked a brow at him.

He flush spread from the tips of his ears to at least the middle of his ribs — it surprised her honestly how deep it went. "Nat I'm uh" — and that it could even darken, considering she could still feel his cock poking her butt — "I'm indecent."

"Then put some pants on," she said, covering Lila's innocent ears — Natasha hoped Lila wouldn't ask her parents about Uncle Steve hurting Auntie Nat later. Steve pouted. "And think of Tony in a speedo or something."

"Oh God… oh God, why did you put that image in my head!" He rolled away from her, rummaging on his side of the bed for his boxers. "I'm not gonna be able to un-see it. What do kids say these days? Brain bleach? I need brain bleach thanks to you." He grunted as he pulled them on.

"Is it working?" she asked, still protecting Lila's childhood innocence from grown up talk. "Well?" There was a pause, followed by a ragged sigh.

"Yeah, it's working." Steve sounded dejected. "I'm still gonna need brain bleach or that Hydra mind wipe machine; probably would work better than brain bleach."

"I'll make it up to you later," she said as he crawled back into bed, now decent. He grunted, stuffing a pillow between them and resting his chin on her bicep. "You're chin's boney."

"Suck it up, Nat. You should've locked the door," he said. She rolled her eyes and gave him a look before uncovering Lila's ears.

"Why was Uncle Steve hurting you?" Lila asked. Natasha paled. "Auntie Nat?"

"Back massage," Steve said, "I was giving Auntie Nat a back massage." Natasha scowled at him, but he gave her a look and she shrugged. It was better than not answering Lila's question. He slapped her ass. "She's as stiff as a side of frozen beef."

It was thanks to years of training that she didn't squeak at the sudden raunchiness of the entire situation. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and glanced at Steve askew. "Steven," she said, her voice colder than a Russian winter. Steve gave an awkward cough and rolled onto his stomach. She smiled and kissed Lila's cheek. "What do you say about pancakes my little bluebird?"

" _Blueberry pancakes_?" Lila sat up, her grin wide and infectious as she patted her palms together. Natasha nodded. " _Yes!_ " Lila bounced on her knees, giggling.

"Alright, go get dress and we'll go get blueberry pancakes at Nan's," Natasha said. Lila squealed, running off to get dressed. She chuckled, leaning against Steve. "Are you pouting?" Her fingers danced along his spine.

"No."

"Liar." She nuzzled his ear only to yelp when he grabbed her, dragging her beneath him. "Steve!"

"Next time, love" — he kissed her — "lock the damn door."

Natasha hummed then pushed against him. "Just think of it as practice for when you become a father." She winked, wiggling out from under him. She made it to the edge of the bed when he grabbed her, a loud shrieking squeak leaping from her throat. "Steve, let me go!"

"Does that mean you wanna have kids with me?" he asked. She smiled, imagining a cozy apartment in Brooklyn that over looked the East River, the pitter-patter of tiny feet running around. "Hm?" He placed a kiss on her neck, nuzzling her skin. "Cause I think my kids would be pretty damn lucky to have you as their mother." Natasha closed her eyes, sighing in contentment.

"I can't have children Steve," she whispered, "I told you that. I can't give you what you want." It hurt telling him that but better nip such domestic delusions in the bud. He was quiet for several long moments, his nose against her nape and his warm breath fanning the sensitive skin there.

"I know," he said in a queerly melancholic tone.

It hurt. It hurt not being able to give Steve want he deserved, it hurt knowing she wanted to be a mother more than anything but was unable to because the Red Room stole the very essence of her womanhood from her. It hurt being so in love with a man she would gladly build a family with yet was unable to. The entire situation hurt. "Let me go," she said. "Please." He did, though he hesitated, as if he wanted to assuage her pain. Turning, she grabbed his chin and kissed him, savoring the intimate connection with him. Letting him go — albeit reluctantly — she got dressed. "I love you Steve, but think about a life with me would look like and if you really want a childless marriage to a barren woman."

Steve got off the bed and walked to the window, resting his forearm on the upper window frame as he stared out it, watching whatever scene caught his interest below. "Do you want me to shave?" he asked. She frowned in thought. It was a strange question to ask her. A part of her wanted to say yes — only because she was used to seeing him with baby-bottom smooth cheeks. The other part was against the idea of him shaving. He had a rugged masculine look to him with his beard growing in. Natasha licked her lips.

"Shave when we get back to the tower," she said, and walked out of their room.

* * *

There was a quiet comfort in the solitude of the winter evening in the country side. Big fat snowflakes drifting down, the warm yellow glow of the indoors seeping through the window and the muffled shouts of gay laughter. It reminded Steve of the holidays back in Brooklyn, when it was just him, his mother and Bucky's family. Becca chasing Bucky around the house, Bucky whooping with laughter, while he watched the horseplay from the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap as he strung it on a string. Despite being poor, he always enjoyed Christmas. It wasn't about presents, but spending time with family and cherishing them.

The door open, letting out a burst of warm air and the lingering smells of dinner. Clint came out with a stable gun and a worn out cardboard box with the word _Christmas lights_ scrawled in black marker. "You know, I hope it was amusing for you two," Clint said, "watching me cluck like a chicken before you let Lila outta the car."

"Nat thought it was funny," Steve said, arching a brow at the box of tangled Christmas lights. "And what are we supposed to do with those?" he nodded at the box. Clint sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a sorry looking pack of cigarettes. Steve's brows shot into his hairline.

"Smoke?" he asked, offering a cigarette to him. He shrugged and accepted it and stuck it into his pocket; Clint pulled one out and tucked it behind his ear. "And we're supposed to hang them up. It's" — Clint made air quotes — "the man's job to put up the lights." He rolled his eyes and pulled out the gorgon's knot of lights. "And we have to make sure they work. It's a pain in the goddamn ass."

Chuckling, Steve began the arduous task of untangling the lights. There was much swearing, their frustration mounting. Slowly, but surely the tangle came undone, the culling of worthless lights completed. Clint handed him the staple gun and told him how the lights have been hung every year. "Why am I doing the dangerous part again?" he asked, as he climbed up onto the snow slick rail of the porch.

"You're the super soldier," Clint said, feeding Steve the lights from the safety of the porch. "If you slip and bust your skull you'll heal in a week. I slip and bust my skull I may as well be in a coma."

He grunted as he stapled the lights to the eve of the roof. Thanks to the serum, the dim light was enough to see clearly and he avoided injuring his fingers in the process. He glanced down, noting the two dogs at Clint's feet. "Do you do this?"

"Yeah, Coop feeds me the lights. If Barney stays, I make him do it" — Clint shrugged — "since he's not here, you're the lucky fella." He smirked. "No saggy sections, Laura will have us tear it down and do it again."

"Oy vey." He inched along the railing, shuffling snow off as he did so. The lights went up quickly once he got a rhythm down. Clint knew what he was doing, feeding the lights to him at proper intervals, a silent communication going on between them — not unlike how it felt working with him during the Battle of New York. At the end, Steve hopped off the railing, Clint tossed him the plug and he plugged it in, the Christmas lights blooming into a rainbow of colors. The door opened and Laura came out to inspect their work.

"Not bad Steve," she said, leaning over the railing. "You're a natural at this."

"Thanks." He came back up onto the porch, smiling at her. Natasha peeked at him from the window, but quickly disappeared deeper into the house when Lila came to her side. That awful feeling in his gut returned, the one that had been festering since the diner. A niggling doubt in his head hissed at him that Natasha was going to end things between them — even after confessing she was happy and in love with him — to spare him the pain of a childless marriage.

"Steve?" Laura said, placing a hand on his arm, "you okay? You zoned out for a moment."

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, offering up a smile. Clint and Laura exchanged a look and a shrug. "Really, I am."

"Okay; do you want some coco then?" she asked. He nodded. "Alright" — she turned to Clint — "one." She held up a finger, tapped his nose and he pulled her close, pecking her lips. "You know I don't like the taste," she said and gave him another kiss before going back inside. Clint pulled out a lighter and light his cigarette and then offered it to Steve.

"Didn't know you smoked," Steve said as he lit the cigarette. The taste of nicotine on his tongue brought back memories of barrooms and campfires, cold snow and foreboding trees with enemies lurking in the shadows unseen, dance halls and the brass sound of a swing band and newly legalize alcohol. When he was another man, in another lifetime.

"Eh" — Clint shrugged — "only when I do this. Never took you for a smoker either."

Steve laughed. "You were a social outcast if you didn't smoke back in my day. Smoking was recommended for asthmatics. I never really got into the habit, dabbled with it after the serum though" — he bobbed his head — "can't get sick so why not."

"So it's true then," Clint said, breathing out a trail of silver smoke, "about the serum?"

Steve sighed, the silver smoke curling around his face. In the distance the shadow of deer moved across the field, nuzzling the snow looking for anything to eat. An owl hooted, the eerie sound muted in the snowy landscape. The world was slumbering, silent and heavy as it awaited spring. "I was frail and ill constantly, to the point that I didn't really know what 'healthy' was. Having constant health issues was my normal" — he took a drag on the cigarette, watching the fiery glow of the tip flare into brief life — "then the serum. I saw colors I never seen before, all my senses had been heightened, I could _breathe_ without wheezing. I felt like a god. My first winter without a cold, no allergies during the summer" — he tapped the ash off the end — "yeah, its true. I can't get sick, I'm in peak physical health but I can't get drunk, I eat like a horse, and I don't sleep as much as a normal person." Then again, the sleep could just because of my nightmares. His lips twisted in a rueful frown. Somewhere in the woods the howls and laughing yips of coyotes echoed. It brought back memories of cold winters in Brooklyn, sitting on his Grandpa Ian's knee, listening to stories of Cú Chulainn and the legends of the Irish wolves.

"Laura," Clint hollered, "coyotes tonight, gotta keep the dogs in." He took a last drag on his cigarette before dropping it and snuffing it out with his foot. "Coyotes are a damn nuisance, will lead a dog astray and then kill it. Vicious fuckers."

"Huh." Steve finished his cigarette, snuffing it out in the snow on the railing. The two men stood there in silence, watching the snow fall as night settled in on the land with the Christmas lights softly aglow overhead. "I know about Rose," he said, his voice distant. Clint's eyes widened and then he swore under his breath. "I've known for a while — I just… Nat confirmed it."

"How?" Clint took a step closer to him, keeping his voice low. "Nat guards that secret better than a dragon guards gold."

Steve shivered. The cold of the abandoned facility a sharp memory in his mind. The feel of the old files in his hand, the grotesque instruments laying on countertops and Sam asking what the hell was this place. Bile bubbled in his throat, burning and bitter. Rage and frustration tore at his muscles and he flexed his hands. "When Sam and I were looking for Bucky. We found an old Red Room facility. The Russians must've forgotten about it. A lot of their files were still there. Found Natasha's. Tony installed JARVIS on my phone." Steve shook his head. "Someone brought up Rose a few weeks ago — Natasha told me last night who she was."

"That's… she trusts you Steve and" — Steve walked off, hands in his pockets — "hey, where you going?" Clint asked, following Steve through snow. "Steve!" he shouted as Steve headed towards the woods. Coyotes cackled in the distance and the dogs at Clint's heels whined, pulling their ears back and giving a warning bark at the darkness. "Steve, c'mon man," Clint called again, but didn't peruse him further.

It was better this way, Steve thought as he heard Clint shuffle back through the snow. The trees loomed overhead, thick and dark and foreboding. His mother and grandfather always warned him about going into the woods at night — the woods separated Tír Naill from the human world, and nighttime blurred the two realms. Those stories used to frighten him as a boy, but he saw worse horrors during the war — stuff that would put even the Morrígan to shame. The woods at night no longer scared him. The trees creaked, the soft thump of snow echoing in the distant blackness. The great pine towered over him, branches dark and laden with snow. He bit his lip, flexing his hands. He punched the tree, leaving a sizable divot in the bark.

It wasn't fair. His fists pounded against the bark and the wood, the sharp scent of sap filling his nose as it mingled with the crisp scent of snow. Natasha had such a good heart yet such a shitty life. The tree groaned as he punched and clawed at the exposed wood, fingers and knuckles bleeding, sap coating his skin and tears freezing on his cheeks. Guilt burned in his chest — the woman he loved, the woman he privately swore to protect at all cost — and he failed her. Failed her when she needed him the most because he was trapped in ice for seventy years. He pulled his arm back and cried out as he punched the weaken center of the tree, breaking through the tree and leaving a gnarly hole in the center of the trunk. His hands hurt, blood dripping from his fingertips and knuckles; he could feel the chunks of wood and the sting of sap. In a few minutes the serum would kick in and start healing, pushing the wood and sap and grit out of his skin. Sighing, Steve placed his hands above the gaping hole and pushed. The tree groaned. He grunted, putting his back into it and the wood began to creak before finally snapping, a sound akin to a thunder clap. A rattling boom echoed through the night, a cloud billowed up composed of snow and pine needles and dirt. Owls took flight and the coyotes stopped their laughing. His heart pounded in his chest as he sat down, forearms resting on his knees. A beam of light passed over the felled tree, the jagged stump and the chips of wood littering around the base. "Hey Clint," he said.

"Jesus," Clint swore as he surveyed the damage. "You did this?"

"Yup." Steve popped the P and picked out some of the wood from his hands. He closed his eyes — it didn't help banishing the images his mind conjured — and shuddered. The old abandon facility, coated in ice and cobwebs, the dungeons guised as bedrooms with bars on the doors and windows, a handcuff on the bedpost. JARVIS reading out loud the translation of the files they found and Sam's soft horrified _good god_ at what the Red Room ha done. "I know Clint," he said, staring at the ruined tree. "I know everything. I found the old files… I read them. Good Lord… what they did to her…" he lapped at a bloodied knuckle, tasting sap and iron. "I saved her grandmother during the war, yet I couldn't even save Natasha because I was an idiot and got myself struck in ice for seventy years."

Clint dropped a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault Cap." He squeezed his shoulder. "Nat knows it's not your fault and she doesn't blame you. She doesn't blame anyone — other than those responsible."

"Then why do I feel guilty? Why do I feel like I failed her?" He looked at Clint. "I love her. A man's supposed to protect the woman he loves — how can I love her when I couldn't even protect her when she needed me the most?" He bowed his head. "Bucky killed... No, he _butchered_ her family." He closed his eyes. "Killed her newborn daughter right in front of her. My best friend made sure her family was slaughtered so the Red Room could have her" — he snorted — "so they wouldn't have their _weapon_ compromised."

Clint shook his head with a weary sigh. "C'mon, let's get you back to the house. Clean you up," he said. He nodded, getting up. The two men walked back to the house in broody silence. Snow crunching beneath their feet. The little hairs on the back of Steve's neck stood up and he couldn't quiet shake the feeling that _something_ had disproved of his wanton destruction of the tree — his mother's stories of the fairies coming back to haunt him.

* * *

The warm air hit him upon entering the house. Laura had sent Lila and Cooper to bed, while she and Natasha sat on the couch chatting about life and politics and whatever other topic caught their fancy in the moment. They sipped coco and the smell of chocolate and peppermint drifted through the living room. Natasha offered him a smile when he came in. "Your coco is on the counter Steve," she said.

"Thanks." He slipped his shoes off and went to the kitchen, grabbing the mug and brushed some of the wood off his knuckles, which had begun to itch. He sipped it, smiling as it brought back memories of his childhood. Christmas and his birthday was the only time his mother ever bought something sweet. The only time he had candy was if he was lucky enough to happen across a dime or a nickel.

"Nat, could you please tell your boyfriend not to chop down trees with his fists?" Clint said and he heard Natasha mutter something in Russian. Sighing, he walked back into the living room and smiled at Natasha. She was attractive when vexed: the way her lips twisted into a scowl, the furrow of her brow and the sharp bright anger in her green eyes. It made his heart flutter.

"You doing what now?" she asked as she set her mug down on the coffee table and took his hand. "Steve." She clicked her tongue, plucking the chunks of wood out of his hand. "Laura, can you get me a damp cloth. He's bleeding." Laura nodded and left the couch. "Why were you punching trees?"

"Angry." He sipped his coco.

"About?"

"Stuff." He looked away from her disapproving gaze. Laura came back with a damp rag, handing it over to Natasha, who gently wiped away the blood and sap from his hands. "You don't need to worry."

"Punching trees to the ground… remind me not to end up onn the receiving side of his fists," Clint said. Natasha chuckled.

"Well, Steve did hold up an entire bunker from collapsing on us." She glanced at Steve. "What stuff were you angry about? If you're punching trees to the ground because you're angry, I think I should be worried."

"I'm gonna check on the kids and get ready for bed," she said, picking up her mug. She kissed Clint on the cheek on her way out. Clint waited until it was just the three of them; Steve shifted, uncomfortable with the scrutiny Clint and Natasha were paying him.

"He knows," Clint said, as he sat down on the couch. "Everything." Natasha spared both a glance.

"It's nothing Nat," he said, trying to curtail this conversation before it began. Natasha dug a nail into a half-healed cut and he winced.

"Everything?" she asked. Steve wasn't sure to who she directed the question at; Clint nodded. "Why didn't you tell me?" she looked at him, sadness in her eyes. He pulled his hand away and set his coco down before taking the rag from her limp fingers and finished tending to his healing injuries. "Steve."

"It's nothing Nat. I'm fine. We're fine." He sighed, wincing a little as he dabbed at his cuts, skin pink and new and tender. "I just… I didn't — you with Rose and I — I didn't want to open old wounds for you." He gave a rueful snort. "So I kept my mouth shut." Silence rushed in, filling the pregnant void between them. The grandfather clock that stood in the hall way donged the late hour. Clint gave an awkward cough, muttered a hasty goodnight and left, the stairs creaking as he ascended them. A few seconds later the timers clicked off, the lights outside and in the Christmas village going dark. Long shadows seeped through the window, the flood light that hung over the garage illuminating the eerie wintery white world. The scents of peppermint and chocolate linger. In the darkness they brought little joy — his first Christmas without his mother: no tree to decorate, no popcorn to string, Bucky's half-hearted invitation to his family's home for eggnog and caroling. Then the war happened and Christmas ceased to exist. He blew on his knuckles, the last bits of wood fluttering down into the darkness. There will be no scarring, by noon tomorrow his hands would be unblemished. Natasha stood up, a moving shadow in the darkness. She didn't say anything, just picked up the mugs and walked to the sink. He heard the clink as she set them down. "Nat?"

"Hm?"

He opened his mouth to say something — anything, but there wasn't anything to say. How was he supposed to even bring up the subject of her past in the least painful manner? It was the same conundrum he faced with Tony: how did he tell Tony he knew the truth of how Howard and Maria died. There was no easy way to go about this — yet staying silent didn't seem like the correct choice either. Before he could say anything her phone rang, the screen lighting up from where it sat on the table, angrily blaring the obnoxious jingle. He glanced at it, noting it was an unknown number. Natasha snatched it from him before he could reach it. "Nat?"

"I gotta take this," she said, as she put her phone to her ear and walked outside into the white winter world. He watched as her shoulders stiffen and ran a hand through her hair; though her words were muffled, she sounded angry and was speaking in Russian. Sighing, he shook his head and went to bed. Hoping a shower and some sleep would assuage his conscience.

* * *

The theater was packed. Shadowy faceless people watched the movie on the silver screen with rapt drone-like attention. Steve stared, the uncanny sense of déjà vu washing over him as all too familiar images appeared: his mother's death, losing Bucky, crashing the Valkyrie, waking up only to learn that everyone he knew and loved had gotten too old or had died, finding out that Bucky was still alive but nothing more than Hydra's plaything, learning what the Red Room did to Natasha.

"You can't save her." It was the Red Skull's malicious voice, always hissing at him in the chair beside him. The disfigured man ate popcorn as the black and white images flashed on screen. The shadow audience laughed as the larger kids began to pummel him. "You never will be able to."

"What are you talking about?" Steve looked at the Red Skull. "Why are you here?" The Red Skull laughed as Hodge kicked the support post out, insuring that the barbwire would come crashing down on him. "Are you going to answer me?"

"Hey," someone whispered from behind them, "wanna show some respect?"

"Oh don't fool yourself Captain" — the Red Skull sipped his Coca-Cola, ignoring the person behind them — "You aren't a hero. You couldn't even save yourself, let alone the people you loved."

Steve swallowed. "That's not true." Desperate to help his mother, he agreed to help the local gang in robbing a drug store. Of the five hooligans that committed the crime he was the only one that got caught. Reluctantly, he returned the stolen money, informed the store owner why he even did it in the first place, and agreed to pay the man back anyway he could. It was his first job, though his first two paychecks went to repairs for the damage he helped caused. The local gang leader ended up beating him up for what he did. The Red Skull chuckled.

"So brave" — he gestured a black gloved hand at the screen — "making an empty promise to Peggy as you die" — he popped more popcorn into his mouth — "though I would consider it rather foolish. Not saving yourself when you had the chance."

"I made the right call. I saved hundreds — no thousands of people. I helped end the war, stop Hydra!" Cold sweat beaded on his brow as the film ended, the last few frames of the reel flashing up on screen. The lights didn't turn on. "I'm a hero."

"To whom, Captain?" the Red Skull asked. "Who did you save in the end?" He gestured to the screen. "Howard Stark?" An image of Howard flashed on the screen; his face bloodied and bashed in, a few teeth missing.

"You were my friend Steve," Howard said, blood bubbling on his lips, "why didn't you save me and my wife? I thought you were my friend."

The air got stuck in his lungs, like a great hand was squeezing his chest. He clutched at his sternum, wheezing in each breath. "I'm sorry… I… I…" what excuse did he have? Howard was right, he should've been there to stop Bucky. The Red Skull made an amused hum and another image appeared. Bucky stared back at him, a blank expression on his face.

"You let me fall, Steve. Because of you I became Hydra's dog, they're loyal assassin" — Bucky shook his head — "I thought you were my friend. I saw you as my brother. Yet you let them make me a monster. It's all your fault Steve."

"No," Steve said, "Bucky — I tried. I tried to save you. I almost had you but the railing gave way and—"

"Excuses!" Bucky hissed. "You saved yourself over saving me! You're so-called best friend. The monster Hydra made me rests squarely on your shoulders." Bucky looked sad. "You didn't even bother to look for my body. My family had to bury an empty coffin." The screen turned a blinding grey, the bold letters of _Please Standby_ a harsh contrast. Steve bowed his head, hiding his shameful tears.

"Please, no more," he begged, "no more."

"No more?" Natasha said, appearing on screen, a bloody gaping wound between her breasts; blood running down the corner of her mouth. "No more. That's what I said in the Red Room. I was punished. You didn't save me Steve. You saved my grandmother, but you didn't save me. Where were you when I was a little girl? Where were you when I was a slave to the Red Room? I needed you then, so where were you?" She touched the ugly wound. "I thought you loved me. I gave you my heart and you killed me."

"No, no" — panic flooded his system — "No Nat, please. I didn't. I didn't kill you. I'm sorry. I wanted — I would've saved you. I would've saved all of you. I was frozen ice! Nobody knew where I was! I'm sorry I wasn't there!"

"I'm dead now because of you Steve" — the image shifted and her neck bulged unnaturally as if it was broken, rivulets of blood seeping from her hairline — "you killed me." The words echoed in the theater, Howard and Bucky repeating them as well. Covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. The Red Skull cackled.

"Please," he said, "make it stop. Make it stop!" He turned to the Red Skull, who laughed along with the shadow audience. "Make it stop!" he yelled, trying to find the man in charge of the projector. "Please, just make it stop! I don't want to watch anymore. Please! I'm sorry."

"Hey, you wanna shut up?" the same person yelled from behind him. Steve stood up, turning around to look at whoever yelled at him. His gut dropped into his feet. Sitting there was himself — before the serum; daring him to do something.

Steve lunged for his younger self and hit the wooden floor of the attic room with a loud thumb, hitting his head against the heater. "Ow." He sat up, rubbing his abused skull and looking around. Phantom images of the dream still lingered and it took him several moments to readjust to reality. He shivered, skin clammy from the cold sweat that drenched him. Grunting he stood up, expecting to see Natasha's sleeping from in bed (or at least looking at him). Yet the bed was empty, though her duffle bag was still at the foot of the bed, open to reveal some of her shirts. "Nat?" he called, throwing on a robe and padding downstairs. "Nat?" he looked around the living room and in the spare bedroom downstairs. Nothing. He stepped outside, shivering against the cold. His SUV was gone. "What the hell?" Confused, he walked back inside, sticking his hands into his armpits and went back upstairs. He took one glance around the attic room. It didn't make sense, there was no reason for Natasha to just _abandon_ him at Clint's, not when she left her duffle bag here. 

Grunting, Steve turned the small bedside light on to look for his phone. The nightmare still haunted him, gory images of Natasha flashing through his head. A shiver ran down his spine. He just wanted to hear her voice. Know that she was okay. The black screen gleamed at him from the shadows. Grabbing it, he selected her contact and it the phone icon. It ran twice.

"Hello?" The breath he didn't realize he was holding came out in a world weary sigh. "Steve?"

"Hey, Nat... Sorry, I just" — he scratched at the inner corner of his eye, sitting on the bed — "bad dream. Wanted to hear your voice." 

"Oh. I see." 

"Hey, where are you by the way?"

"I have an emergency to deal with. Don't worry nothing I can't handle by myself. I'll be back tomorrow evening — or this evening."

"Mind telling me what's this emergency is? You left without saying goodbye," he said. All he could hear was her breathing, a static crackly sound. He swallowed. 

"It's... Personal. Something from my past." 

"You know if you —"

"I'll be back later Steve. Don't worry" — there was another pause — "I love you." 

"Love you too honey," he said. "See ya when you get back." The phone beeped at him when Natasha ended the call. Sighing, he put his phone down and sat there in the darkness. Until he heard something downstairs. Frowning, he went downstairs, with the full intention of defending Clint's home. Only it was Clint, pulling out a case if beer and a platter of steaks.

"Hey Cap" — Clint grinned — "wanna steak?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> All is not well in paradise. 
> 
> I also really like the song.


	17. Lust and Envy

_Do not overrate what you have received, nor envy others. He who envies others does not obtain peace of mind._ — _Buddha_

* * *

This wasn't what she had planned at all. It wasn't what she wanted. Guilt gnawed at her gut as she sped down the slick roads and back into New York City. The snow had shifted to rain halfway through the drive and the windshield wipers thump-thumped as she drove along the quiet streets towards the safe house Bucky was in. She parked in the back alley of the rundown motel and climbed the fire escape, better not to be seen plus then she didn't have to hassle with the bloke at the desk. Bucky was waiting for her, letting her into the hallway and then into his room. He still stank, his hair was greasy and his beard thicker. The small room wasn't any better, still dingy and tired looking, the bed sagging in the middle. The only bright spot in the room was the shiny metal of his arm, the red communist star bright against the silver of the metal. "What do you want?" she asked as she closed the door and folded her arms over her breasts. The faster she got this over with the faster she can get back to Steve. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek; just thinking about Steve made the guilt in her soul swell.

Bucky didn't say anything, just opened a cupboard and pulled out two glasses and a half drunk bottle of vodka. "Drink?" he asked. She shook her head. He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He poured himself a glass and tossed it back before pouring another one. The second one he sipped, color rising to his cheeks. "I missed you."

"Is that why you dragged me away from my vacation with my _boyfriend_ " — Bucky flinched at the word — "to tell me you missed me?" She watched him finish off the glass and poured himself a third. "Or is there something else going on James?"

"How much longer?" He twirled the glass, watching the clear liquid slosh back and forth against the glass. "I don't like waiting."

Natasha leaned against the door, making a face at the grime she could feel through her jacket. Did this dump of a motel even have a housekeeping staff or did they expect the guests to at least tidy up after themselves? Considering she saw used needles and condoms beneath the couch, she doubted both. She was surprised rats hadn't showed up yet. "My contact won't be able to do much until after the holidays. He's going to try though."

Bucky grunted, and tossed back the rest of his drink and poured a fourth glass. Vaguely, Natasha wondered if he was trying to get drunk. From her understanding Hydra had used a modified version of the serum — recreated from the half-finished one Schmidt used on himself — to turn Bucky into a super-soldier (along with whatever genetic enhancements Zola did to him while he was a captive). It was unlikely that Bucky could get drunk; the way he was tossing back vodka she suspected he couldn't. "Does your contact have a pal?"

She furrowed her brow. Matt knew better than to look into what she was doing or get Jessica Jones to anyway. Plus, even if Matt did go snooping, he had enough sense not to be seen by Bucky. "No." She stepped to the window and peeled back the curtain a sliver to look into the dark alleyway. Nothing seemed amiss: no glint of glass from binoculars or a scope, no out of place garbage to indicate someone had been rummaging around in the dumpster. "Did you see someone?"

Bucky grunted. "Yeah." He brought the bottle to his lips, abandoning the glass and drinking it straight. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow he took. Sighing, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, some of droplets still clinging to his beard. "Tall fella, trench coat, Marine hair cut, wore all black. Carried himself like a soldier. Had a knife on his hip, a big one." Bucky took another swallow of vodka. "He followed me to the corner store."

She swore in Russian. "Damn." This little venture back into the city was getting complicated. Glancing at her watch, she hoped she had enough time to confront Frank and get back to Clint's by evening. The idea of manhandling Steve in bed and fucking his brains out was all too appealing and so much better than dealing with this bullshit Bucky had caused. "I'll see what I can do," she said.

"Thanks." He offered a smile. She scowled, feeling smug as his smile fell. "Natalia."

"Talk to him" — Bucky cocked his head — "Steve. I'll give you his number. Use your phone and call him." The secret was eating away at her and she didn't want to know how Steve would react when he found out she knew where Bucky was the entire time. "Please."

"No." Bucky finished off the bottle of vodka and left it on the counter. He pulled another one form the cupboard and started guzzling it. "I'm not talking to Steve."

"Why not?" she asked, walking up to him. He arched a brow, a challenge. Lifting her chin, she stood her ground. "Is it because of what happened on the helicarrier or on the freeway? Steve'll forgive you James. He understands you weren't yourself. All he wants is his best friend back."

Bucky snorted. "He has that bird guy with him. Why does he need me?" She slapped him. The silence was tense, the look in his blue eyes hard. For a moment Natasha feared she had awaken the Winter Soldier, bringing the merciless assassin to the surface. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding when Bucky rubbed his cheek. "I'd be careful Natalia."

"Sam's a good man" — a better man than you at any rate — "and a good friend when Steve needed one." Bucky flared his nostrils and took another swig of vodka. "I don't understand why you won't talk to Steve. Are you afraid of what he'll find out?" she ran a hand through her hair. "I already gave him your file. He knows everything James."

Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not everything." He set the bottle down and reached for her with his left hand. Frozen, her heart pounding against her ribs, she stood still as the unsightly metal hand brushed her cheek. Cold robotic fingers traced her cheekbone, the mechanical thumb stroking her lower lip. "Lisichka…" A rueful look glittered in his blue eyes; Natasha swallowed, remembering the brief romance they shared and how she saw glimpses of the man he used to be. His hot vodka tainted breath fanned against her lips; she grabbed his shoulders and rammed her knee into his gut, crumpling him to the ground with pained groan.

"What the _hell_ James." Rage erupted in her. The gall that he had to try and _kiss_ her, to rekindle a romance that was nothing more than ashes. "What part of _my vacation with my boyfriend_ didn't you understand?" she asked as he got to his feet. "I _love_ Steve. I want a life with him, a family." She shook her head. "I want that with him. Steve makes me happy. He sees the light in me — he sees the good in me, something, or someone that I haven't thought about being in decades. The person I want to be" — she jabbed her finger into his chest — "I was having a good time but you had to call and drag me away from him."

"You said you loved me," he said, anger sparking in his eyes. "You were mine! You were mine Natalia! The one good thing in my fucking life — and now Steve has you!" Bucky threw the bottle, she dodged, watching it shatter against the door; vodka running down in rivulets. She scowled at him.

"Nobody _owns_ me James," she said, acid in her tone. "Least of all you. I've spent enough time being someone's _possession_. Steve sees me as an equal."

Bucky snarled, baring his teeth. A wrathful cry leapt from his throat and he slammed his metal fist into the dry wall, chalky white dust billowing up on impact. "It's not fair, why does he get you? He had Peggy and now he has you?"

"James?" Maybe he could get drunk or maybe these feelings had been pent up too long that the vodka just loosened everything — like a dam bursting — and it came spilling out. "What are you talking about?"

"Ever since Steve got that serum he's all anyone ever sees or cares about? Steve this and Steve that. Captain America this and Captain America that. I feel like I have to live up to his fucking legend and I'm — _was_ — his best friend yet I got reduced to a damn sidekick!" Bucky ran a hand through his hair. "He grows a few feet and all the girls are fawning over him. Yet he takes the one girl I love — _you_ — because he just can't help himself. After everything I did for him — what I suffered because I had to agree to follow him like a damn fool?" Bucky shook his head. "He doesn't deserve you or the serum."

"James… you don't really think that? Steve's a good person, he's the only one Erskine felt would… benefit from the serum. Be the man he envisioned." She reached for him but thought better of it. "I'm sorry about what happened between us, but you and I both knew it couldn't last."

"Whenever I woke up, just before they put me in that machine… I thought about you. I thought that if I ever got freed I'd come and find you. I'd save you from the Red Room and we could be together" — he closed his eyes — "that I could have some small measure of peace."

Sighing, she walked up to him and gave him a hug. "I'm sorry James, but its not going to happen. I love Steve and you need to find peace within yourself" — she cupped his face — "and not look for it within someone else. If you do you'll never find it." She gave him a small smile. "Call Steve. Talk to him — tell him about this… what you're feeling. I know he never wanted to be special. He never wanted all the fame and glory. I know him well enough to know that he never saw you as a 'sidekick' only has his best friend."

Bucky pulled away, turning his back towards her. "You better go," he said, his voice tight. "And make sure you get that goon off my back. Don't want to kill anyone. Have enough blood on my hands."

"I'm sorry Bucky," she said, and she heard him suck in a breath. "Also, a word of warning" — her lips twitched into a sardonic smile — "since we have history together after all. That grunt" — she scratched at some peeling paint on the doorframe — "don't go looking for him. Don't even try to fight him. Hell doesn't want him and death is scared of him." She shrugged, nonchalant. There was nothing felt to say. A vast ocean lay between them and she didn't want to cross it — there wasn't anything worth on the other side for her. Closing her eyes, she left the dirty motel room.

* * *

It was easier to find Frank. The man was sitting in the shadowy corner in a late night bar, nursing a beer he probably ordered when he first came in. She sashayed over to him, murder in her eyes and took the stool besides him. "Buy me a drink handsome?" She asked, trailing her finger along his wrist.

Frank smirked, took a sip of beer and said, "what you up to Red?"

Natasha smiled blithely, batting her eyes and shrugging one shoulder. "Oh a little bit of this a little bit of that" — she tapped her nails on the sticky polished counter — "heard you want to kill one of my friends." Frank raised a brow. "Don't."

"No can-do sweetheart." He waved the bartender over, a pretty girl with fake tits — she could tell because they didn't jiggle right when she walked. "You know what he's done. Seventy credited kills — that they know about. A man like him will kill again." The bartender placed a beer on the counter and popped the cap. "Best place for him is cold in the ground."

"And here I thought you were more concerned with hunting street thugs and mobsters" — Natasha took a sip of beer, it tasted like horse piss — "how can you drink this stuff?"

Frank laughed. "Marine." He took a sip, that devil-may-care smile back on his face. Frank Castle was the type of man that would double cross the Devil and cheat Death in one breath. There was something about him that even made her a bit leery of him. She wouldn't be surprised if God's Avenging Angels themselves steered cleared of Frank Castle.

"Excuses." She kept her hand wrapped around the bottle. In a place like this it would be simple for someone to slip a roofy into an unsuspecting person's drink. She's done it countless times before. "I don't want to hurt you. I like you. I'm sure Steve would like you too." She peered into the bottle. "More or less."

"You finally took the jump." Natasha shrugged; Frank laughed. "Good for you, Red. Good for you." She smiled slyly. "But I won't back off." She scowled. A table behind her erupted in laughter, the drunk laborers smacking each other on the back, regretting they'll have to go back to work on Monday. The blonde bartender rolled her eyes when one called over for another pitcher of beer. Natasha sighed.

"The man you're stalking is named James Buchannan 'Bucky' Barnes," she said, running a finger along the lip of her beer bottle. "Also known as the Winter Soldier. He fell from a train in '45 and was presumed dead. Turned out that Hydra found him, injured with retrograde amnesia" — she had snuck into one of Hydra's storage units, watched how they woke him up, how they wiped his mind to prevent the man he was from resurfacing — "kept wiping his head. Brainwashed him into their best assassin. At some point after the war, he was transferred to Department X, Hydra's Soviet unit" — she looked at Frank from the corner of her eye — "he's as much of a victim as the people he killed." She tipped the bottle back, swallowing down the terrible beer. It burned down her throat, a bitter hoppy taste lingering on her tongue. "He is also the best friend of Captain America" — a sad smile spread across her lips — "more like his brother. The closest thing Steve has to family is Bucky."

"He still pulled the trigger," Frank said, though there was something in his tongue that made her curious. "Still has blood on his hands." He took a long swallow from his beer and leaned into the wall he was sitting against.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh get off your moral high horse, Frank," she said, "I know you have innocent blood on your hands. So don't give me that bullshit."

Frank scowled, straightening. "How do you know about my past?" His hand dropped to the handle of the knife at his hip. She arched a brow, daring him to press the situation. She was trained by the best the Russian military had to offer, trained by the Winter Soldier himself. Few men could best her. Frank wasn't enhanced, wasn't a god. No, he was just a man — but damn good at what he did. She dropped her hand into her pocket, fingertip running along a Widow's sting.

"Few things are ever kept secret from a master spy." With a toss of her head, she took a sip of her beer, grimacing at the disgusting taste. Seriously, why was she drinking this? "I wouldn't do that, Frank." She tipped her head in the direction of his knife. "It'll end badly for you."

The second stretched out for eternity, each heartbeat feeling like ten thousand lifetimes. Slowly, the tension eased out of Frank's shoulders. Grunting, he flicked his trench coat close and leaned against the wall, sipping his beer. "Fine," he grunted, "I'll back off."

"I never said that," she said, finish off the beer. "I just said don't kill him." Frank arched a brow at him. "I want you to keep an eye on him."

"You want me to babysit him?" Frank laughed, shaking his head. "You got balls on you Red." He gave her an approving nod. "Ordering me around. Big fucking balls."

She smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment." And slipped off the stool, stretching cat-like, well aware of the leering eyes of the drunk laborers on her. Grabbing a napkin and a pen, she scrawled the motel room number on it and handed it to Frank. "Make yourself at home. Two bachelors chumming it together shall be fun."

"And if he attacks me?"

She shrugged. "Hit him back," she said, "just don't kill him" — she smiled at him — "be seeing you Frank. I have a man to get back to." Frank chuckled, watching as a couple of drunks stumbled out of the bar.

* * *

Eating out in the woods, with the grey gloaming of dawn breaking through the trees and the golden orange glow of a fire brought back memories for Steve. During the war, he'd wake up in the cold morning, Falsworth already awake and making breakfast while Jones made the coffee. Light chatter passing back and forth between them while Bucky roused the others. They'd all sit around the tiny campfire, shoveling whatever rations they had into their mouths while they reminisced of home, their mothers' or wives' homecooked meals, life before the war, kith and kin they left behind. A dull ache burned in his chest as he stared into the flames. He missed them. "You okay?" Clint asked. "You full? Heartburn?"

He shook his head. "Nah." He cut another bite off the steak, savoring the beefy goodness. Food cooked over a campfire always tasted _better._ Not that he ever been camping before, but he had roasted his fair share of marshmallows and hot dogs on the rare occasion Bucky's family went to the country during the summer. His father knew a man that had a cabin by a lake and sometimes the Barnes' would go and he'd tag along. Blissful warm summers spent fishing and playing in the woods, watching the stars at night and making grandiose promises with Bucky about the bright idyllic future ahead of them. Then the economy crashed and life spiraled into bleak misery. "Just thinking about the past."

Clint shook his head. "You do that too much," he said, twirling a stick around. "Caught up in the past." He tossed it into the red flames. "Do you have any hobbies? Things you like to do?" Clint leaned forward. "I know a lot about Captain America, but I don't know much about Steve Rogers" — he tilted his head — "why don't you tell me about him."

"Oh I..." he trailed off, staring at his half-eaten steak. The dogs at his feet lifted their heads, brown eyes hopeful that they're patience will be rewarded. One licked her jaws and tried not to wag her tail. "I'm not that interesting."

Clint shrugged. "Alright," he said, "what are your intentions with Nat?"

Steve frowned, cut another bite of steak and popped it into his mouth. "What like am I going to marry her?" Clint nodded. "I uh… haven't really thought about it much. I mean… we've both brought up the subject of kids but I think it's kinda moot since she's sterile."

The archer tilted his head. "Is that a no-go?"

"What? No. I just" — he looked at his half eaten steak — "never thought much about it. I mean, I suppose there was always an 'after the war' with Peggy and I thought about maybe settling down at some point before the serum" — he shrugged, using the silent excuse to take another bite to gather his thoughts — "but at the time it just didn't seem that important and then the ice happened."

Dawn was starting to break, the jet of night fading way to the slate of pre-dawn. A light artic breeze buffeted them; the flames leaping in the cold, wood snapping and crackling, embers flying as they illuminated the gloaming in an orange glow. "And now?"

Steve shrugged. "Why bother. I don't belong in this time. I don't get this obsession with technology, kids with their eyes glued to screens. Yeah, okay, people stuck their faces in newspapers and books back in my day but we didn't _ignore_ the entire world the way kids do today. There's nothing for me here. My life" — he pointed his fork at Clint — "was in the 1940s. Here it's just" — he took another bite, watching the flames as he chewed — "I'm a soldier, Clint. I fell back to what I know. War. Fighting. Soldiering. It's just not the same, but there's something comforting in the rigid familiarity of war, of combat. Keeps me sane."

Clint laughed. "Man, you seriously need to get a life." He sipped his beer. "I was like that once. It was always the next heist with the Circus or the next op for Shield. Workaholic, that's what I was. Then I met Bobbi and we got married by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas" — he shrugged — "sure that didn't work out but it gave me a taste of having a life outside of work. I realized I wanted it. _Badly_."

"That's you," he said. "I'm not sure if I want it. I never fit in anywhere. I always had a death sentence looming over me before the serum and now… Captain America just doesn't retire. I never _had_ a life. I was either too sickly to start one or frozen."

"Start one with Nat," Clint said. "It's the one thing she dreams of having. A normal life. One that doesn't involve being the Black Widow. The Black Widow _has been_ her life for as long as she can remember. She wants to have a life as Natasha" — he leaned back and tipped the bottle in his hand in Steve's direction — "why not give that to her. War's over Steve. Sure, there's always gonna be bad guys but what are you gonna do? Put your entire life on hold until they're all gone? Ain't ever gonna happen."

Steve cut the rest of his steak in half and gave it to the two dogs. Settling back into his chair, he pulled his coat around him a bit tighter and scooted the chair closer to the fire. The warmth radiated off the flames in comforting waves, his cheeks itching in the rapid change of temperature. "I've always been fighting. I was eleven when the market crashed. Life was hard before but then it just got worse overnight. I always had to struggle and fight, my mam told me to always get up and that's what I've done my entire life" — he smiled when one of the dogs rested her chin on his knee. He stroked the soft fur, scratching the animal behind her ear — "I always put others before me."

The other dog walked over to Clint and jumped into his lap; he gave a soft grunt as the animal shifted until she got comfortable and settled down. "Good girl." Clint patted the dog's rump. "Have you ever thought that you're so selfless that it's selfish?" Steve frowned. "You put everyone else first but yourself to the point that it's something like an obsession. Makes you feel good to be needed, saving people."

He shrugged. "I just want to do what's right. I don't like bullies. I want to help people and—"

"And you should help yourself. Be selfish for once Steve. It's not going to kill you." Clint set his beer in the snow. "You need to lose some weight Arrow, you're freakin' heavy." The dog whined. "But you really should think about it. Being selfish. Getting a life. I know you don't think you ever had one, but I'm sure before the serum you were normal" — he made a face — "as normal as a guy in your situation could be."

"I was doing art school…" he said, closing his eyes. "I wanted to be a cartoonist. Drawing comics. I loved Buck Rogers, Conan the Barbarian. Fantasy and science fiction helped me deal with how shitty my life was. And drawing. I could escape into my drawings."

"Go back to school."

"What?" Steve looked up. "No, I can't. What if… Interplanetary war breaks out or Tony invents something that ends up killing us or the world?" Clint laughed. "You know Tony." He kissed the dog on top of her head. "I just don't like walking into things without knowing the likely outcome."

Clint picked up his beer and took a long swallow. "That's rich coming from you." Steve frowned. "You survived WWII, the Battle of New York, the Fall of Shield —"

"And I knew the likely outcome of each of those. They were battles. Battles can be predicted. Tactics, strategy —"

"Yet the greatest tactician can't even see that life _is_ a risk," Clint said. Steve looked away, the heat of shame burning in his cheeks, thank goodness the flames masked it. "Nobody is asking you to stop being Captain America — least of all me and Nat."

A sigh escaped him. He closed his eyes, letting Clint's words sink in. The archer was right. He was disappearing into the safety and comfort of the uniform. The battlefield was more his home than the suite in Avengers Tower, the little rundown apartment he had in Brooklyn before the war. On the battlefield everyone expected him to be one thing: a soldier. In the civilian world: people wanted him to open up, wanting him to be something he wasn't anymore — or maybe that person they wanted never existed in the first place. Silent societal expectations he didn't know if he could ever live up to. Being with Clint's family, spending the day with Natasha and Lila at the winter market — it wasn't so bad. Maybe getting serious with Natasha would force him to have a life again, remind him on how to be a normal person. Yet, deep down he feared he'd been the soldier for so long that he would be unable to turn back. "I hate it here," he said. Clint frowned. "Not your farm — I hate being in the time" — he tilted his head back, staring at the multi-colored sky and watched the stars fade away, like the life he used to know and hoped Clint didn't notice the few tears leaking from his eyes — "Hate it" — he sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve — "and I miss them."

"I know," Clint said. "Nat's told me." He picked up his beer and took the last swallow. Arrow huffed, shifting in his lap, while Bo whined softly, her brown eyes searching Steve's.

Steve shook his head, large hand resting on the dog's head. "And it's not just them" — he tried getting lose in the dog's comforting gaze, but it was useless as the crushing isolation filled his chest. Everyone in his generation got to live normal lives, grow old and die with love ones are died defending the people they cared about: except him. — "I miss home. I've been back but it's not the same. Things changed, people moved away, things got torn down and built over. It's worse cause I always thought I'd go back home one day, after the war." He squeezed his eyes shut, a weak smile gracing his lips as Bo nuzzled his hand, giving his palm a comforting lick. "I miss knowing things. How the world works, who's the leaders of various countries and who's in Congress or in the White House. Knowing _history_. I barely understand the last seventy years of history. The culture and society has all _changed_ and I don't know where I fit in anymore."

"Steve—"

"You don't think about it, but things sound different, smell different, taste different. I miss all of it. All the familiarity of how things used to be." He bit his lip. "I just want everything to make sense for once. I want to feel like I belong in my own skin, in this place and time."

"Have you talked to Natasha about any of this?" Clint asked. "The Red Room trained her to not belong anywhere, and I know it's been difficult for her to lay down roots — so to speak — maybe she can empathize" — he shrugged — "at the very least she'll sympathize."

The mere idea of confessing these to Natasha chilled him to the bone. He met Clint's gaze, feeling the color drain from his cheeks. "No." His voice was hushed, a breathy whisper among snow laden trees that got lost in the crackle of the fire. "I haven't." He looked at Bo. "I don't think I want her to know. I know how she sees me — like everyone else — this paragon of righteousness and goodness, someone _perfect_." The crackling fire was more interesting than meeting Clint's gaze. "I'm not perfect, I never was. I told Bucky I wanted to join the army because there were men laying down their lives overseas and I had no right to not do the same. He looked me straight in the eye and told me it's because I had nothing to prove" — a short humorless laugh escaped him — "Buck could always see right through me. I wanted to prove to everyone that I was a _man_. Sure, I was skinny and small and sickly but goddamn it! I was a man and I was gonna fight like the rest of them." An owl hooted somewhere, it's questioning call echoing through the snowy landscape. "More than anything I wanted to prove that to myself."

Clint gave a long weary sigh. "Look Steve… this is all real heavy and deep — I don't think I'm the best person to be discussing this with you. Maybe a therapist or — didn't you say Sam was a councilor at the VA? Maybe you should talk to him" — he shrugged — "at the very least talk to Natasha about this. If you keep secrets from her then… well it's not going to work out. You need to be honest with her. I'm honest with Laura. As much as I can be. She knows that part of the job entails me to keep classified information confidential. But the other stuff — I talk to her about. She's my greatest confidante and one of the very few people I explicitly trust. I love her and that's why I'm as open as I am with her."

"I just can't — I don't want to burden Natasha like that."

"Loving someone isn't a burden, Steve, it's part of being in a relationship. Helping the other person carry their baggage. Sure, my baggage is a lot more complex than Laura's but she helps me carry it. And I help her carry hers."

The wind shifted and he shivered, cupping his hands to blow on them. "How do you do it? Balance being an Avenger and a family man?" It was a question gnawing at the back of his mind. If he were to give up the shield — at least part time, treat it like any other job, then he'd have to figure out how to balance it with a life outside of being Captain America.

Clint shrugged. "I honestly have no idea. Laura helps a lot. Being a housewife, but I know that's not Nat. You just sorta wing it. Remind yourself what's important, fight to come home."

"Aren't you afraid of dying and leaving Laura and the kids behind?"

"Every damn time I leave the house," Clint said, "I just have to trust that this time… won't be the last time. Lucky for me I've had a great team so far, so I've managed to come home every time" — he leaned forward — "and you won't magically stop worrying either. It doesn't get easier but it doesn't get any harder. Even with Laura pregnant. But it's a job, and someone has to do it."

Steve nodded. "I know," he said, "but if I fail… if I'm unable to stop looking for the next fight — the next war — I don't want Natasha to pay the price."

"What are you saying?" Clint sat up, pushing the dog off his lap. He kept his mouth shut, trying to formulate the answer. "Steve?"

"I love Natasha," he said; there was comfort in voicing the truth. "I'm not sure where this is going, how serious this is going to get, _but_ I will do everything I can to protect her, even if that means breaking her heart" — he sighed, closing his eyes — "because she deserves to have a happy life away from the constant fighting." And breaking her heart will involve breaking mine, Steve got up, groaning as he stretched out the kinks in his muscles; Bo watched him. It was light enough to see by, the sky a pale slate with pink and orange and gold on the eastern horizon. The dogs perked up, looking towards the driveway and suddenly they bolted, barking as they charged towards the oncoming headlights.

"Who's that?" Clint asked, as the car parked and the headlights turned off. Steve shrugged, walking towards the house, feeling rather underdressed in his coat, robe and sweats. As he neared the house he could see it was Natasha.

"Steve!" Natasha pushed through the dogs and trotted up to him, almost throwing herself into his arms. Reflexively he caught her, kissing her on the lips, tasting coffee on her tongue. A curious feeling spread over him — a sense of comfort and belonging — the same feeling he found in the midst of combat. With Natasha in his arms he was _home_. "What are you doing up? I thought you went back to bed after I called."

I tried but the nightmares kept coming. "Bed was too big without you in it." He nuzzled her hair, drinking in the familiar scent of her: cucumber and mint. "Missed you."

She hummed. "Missed you too." The wind howled and he shivered, pulling her closer to him. "Why don't we get inside, unless you want to go back to Clint's little campfire."

"Hey, you like my campfire," Clint said, "we've had plenty of after Thanksgiving steaks at that campfire." Natasha laughed, rolling her eyes before pulling away from Steve's embrace and headed towards the house. Clint glanced at Steve. "You know, meeting Laura — she gave me something beyond my job… and my awesome imagination."

Winter crept like a quiet shadow, biting at the heels of autumn. The last vestiges of summer fading away — a sweet pleasant memory beneath the unforgiving snow. Looking at the wintery world Steve felt as if it mirrored his life: cold and bleak, waiting for a spring that seemed uncertain to appear. "What?"

"Purpose," Clint said looking out at the farm. "Laura gave me a purpose — something to fight for — sure you were fighting Nazis but you also were fighting to protect the people you care about. You weren't punching Nazis just to punch Nazis."

Steve quirked a smile. "You can never go wrong with punching Nazis."

"True" — Clint laughed — "but I'd do anything for my family" — he stretched — "Speaking of which: Natasha's like a sister to me" — he looked at the woods — "if you break her heart, they won't find the body." He walked towards the houses leaving Steve standing in the snow and the gloaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> So, someone asked me to do a recap — I honestly don't know how to summarize the last dozen chapters. So if you need to go back and reread earlier chapters before this one that's okay. You can take your time. 
> 
> I've also been reading vol. 1 of the Black Widow epic collection and a good chunk of the book features Avengers stories from the 60s (all centering around Natasha) and one of the things I gleaned was that Steve and Clint are really close. Steve is the only one that likes Clint (Hank Pym doesn't like him and everyone else is ambivalent towards him). They are really good friends. 
> 
> Anyway, it's fun. Also 50 years ago Natasha finally got her own series. August 1, 1970. 😉 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	18. Ghost Bridges

It was always pleasant when the house became quiet. The kids abed, the men afield; it was just her and Laura. "Here." Laura handed her a steaming mug of oolong tea. Smiling, Natasha accepted it with a small thank you and sipped the warm brew as Laura sat down. "You seem like you have a lot on your mind."

"Steve knows" — there was a note of honey that lingered on her tongue. Just enough sweetness to balance the bitterness of the tea. — " about Rose… about _all_ of it." She still didn't know how she felt any that. Surreal, violated, relieved, weightless — she wasn't sure. A part of her definitely felt better that he knew.

"And how do you feel about that?" Laura gave her a sneaky grin. "You forgot I have a psychology degree or that I even was a psychiatrist, huh?" She sipped her tea. Natasha rolled her eyes as she set her mug down and hugged a pillow. "Nat, don't —"

"I'm not bottling up my feelings," she said, looking away. "Being a school councilor hardly qualifies."

Laura snorted, putting her feet up on the table. "I know you're sensitive about people knowing about Rose, but if you want to make friends—"

"Who said anything about making friends?"

"— you need to let people in. At least a little bit." She sipped her tea, hand resting on her belly. "I also know you're jealous about this" — she patted her stomach — "don't be. You'll get another chance."

Natasha sighed. "I know." She bit her lip. "I'm not jealous," she added, an indignant tone in her words. "That you're pregnant again. I'm happy for you and Clint. I'm just —"

"It's okay to be _jealous_ Nat. I know how much you want to be a mother," she said, "And I know you don't think you'll ever get another chance, but" — Laura leaned against her — "look at what you have right now. You're in love with Steve Rogers — Captain America — and I know two years ago you never thought _that_ would happen."

She chuckled, sipping her tea. Two years ago she was meeting Steve for the first time, an awkward man standing on the deck of the helicarrier with Bruce. Her first impression of Steve was that he seemed serious but kind, while Bruce seemed fidgety to her as if he was waiting for something awful to happen. Ultimately, she felt comfortable with Steve, even offering him a smile and savoring the little moment they shared when he called her _ma'am_. "I exposed all my secrets online." A dismissive shrug. The cruel looks she still got from time to time, the jeers and taunts, so far nobody has tried to beat her up again or throw a rock at her but she figured it was only a matter of time before it started again. People only needed one reason to be vicious and hateful.

"Nat." Laura gave her a sad look, sipping her tea. "You didn't — why?" she finally forced out. Natasha sighed, staring at the olive liquid in her mug: Pierce and Rollins with two members of the World Security Council in his office, Fury holding Peirce at gunpoint as she disabled the security protocols on all of Shield's classified files. Peirce trying to goad her into falter — his tactic almost worked, _almost_ — but the man had underestimated her and she spilled her preverbal guts online, along with every other dirty secret this abhorrent bastardization of Shield had kept hidden.

"I had to" — she took a sip — "it was one of the only ways to stop Hydra. I had to do it." Everyone was still dealing with the fallout from that act, six months (almost seven now) later. It didn't just effect her and Steve, but Tony and Bruce and Clint — anyone that had any involvement with Shield over the years. The thing is, she knew that if she had to repeat that day — she'd do it again, without a second thought. The door opened, letting in a burst of cold and snow. Steve and Clint stomping their feet as they came in. She smiled at Steve, watching as the snow melted in his hair. "Hey," she said, reaching out to grab his hand as he passed by. Steve gave her a weak smile, squeezing her fingers.

"I'm going to shower and head to bed," he said, as she tugged his hand. He took the hint, leaning down and pecking her lips. The crisp scent of snow enveloped her and she tried to deepen the kiss but he pulled away — a strange distant look in his eyes.

"Okay," she said, not willing to let go of his hand, "I'll be up shortly." She squeezed his hand one more time before letting him go. The sudden distance unnerved her. It felt like Steve did a complete one-eighty: from sweet and close to almost aloof and distant. Clint patted her shoulder as he walked pass her and she glanced at Laura.

"You and Steve having issues already?" Laura arched a brow, taking a long swallow of her tea. "It's only been two days."

"I don't know," she admitted. "Last night I had to leave for the city — emergency — but I called him and told him I'd be back. He's not codependent, but" — she licked her lips — "he almost seemed _sad_. Sad for me. I don't know." She shook her head, finishing her tea and gracefully standing up from the couch. "I shouldn't worry about it. Steve loves me. I know he does."

Laura nodded. "I just want you to be happy, Nat. You've had such a rough tragic life, so seeing you laugh and smile — knowing Steve brings that out of you — makes me and Clint really happy for you. I just want you to keep holding onto that."

She nodded, understanding. "I know," she said. "Believe me, I want it too." The silence pressed in around her as she glanced down at her mug; empty. Still she tried to get the last drop. "Good night," she said, stopping off at the kitchen to set her mug into the sink and heading upstairs. The room was dark, the clouds hid the moon and no animal tripped the flood lights. On cat silent feet she padded around the cramped space. Enhanced night vision was one of the modifications the Red Room serum flowing through her veins gifted her, and she washed and changed in silence. Ever since they started sleeping together, she got a little thrill whenever she crawled into bed and snuggled up against Steve's warmth and bulk. Reflexively, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and she pillowed her head on his bicep. "You awake?" she asked.

"A little," he mumbled, lips brushing against her temple. "Why?" he didn't bother to open his eyes, but his hand did find her hip, his thumb moving in small circles along her skin. A soft sigh escaped her, the long day catching up with her and she felt her eyes droop.

"Everything okay?" she asked, sleep coating her words. "You seem… distant." Fear zapped its way down her spine, she tried to ignore it but if Steve had now developed second thoughts about this relationship — she closed her eyes, nuzzling his collarbone, trying not to think about the worse case scenario.

Steve sighed, wrapping his arms around her tighter. "Sorry," he said, "just got a lot on my mind." He kissed her brow.

"Do you… wanna talk about it?" she asked. "I'll listen."

He didn't say anything for a long moment. The heater kicked on, rumbling into life like an ancient beast. The sound filled the little room and it was an odd comfort. "No," he said, "I don't know" — a sigh — "maybe later. Not right now."

She pecked his lips. "Okay, I'm here whenever you need to talk." His hot breath ruffled her bangs as he nuzzled her hairline and pressed a kiss to her brow. She smiled, feeling safe and wanted in his arms and she let herself sleep.

* * *

The days following Thanksgiving weekend passed in a busy blur. Between small incidents involving morons thinking they can tangle with the Avengers, to a few terrorists cells in Central Asia and the Middle East. On the seventh of December, she and Steve went down to DC for the seventy-third anniversary of Pearl Harbor. It was a humbling bittersweet moment for her, watching her boyfriend — she had to remind herself that was what he was to her, it got annoyingly easy to think of him as her _husband_ and she wasn't ready for that _yet_ — talk with the veterans and finding Bucky's name on the WWII memorial. Even the visit to Peggy, his exhibit and Arlington had a more solemn weight to them this time that times before. She held his hand when he needed it, assuring him with firm squeezes to his fingers that she was here if he needed her.

They made love that night when they returned to New York. Bruised hearts needed tenderness to begin mending. Before, sex had always been a weapon, a tool to use to complete the mission, a physical function void of emotion. Now with Steve, she learned that sex was more than _just fucking_. It was a connection, the physical manifestation of love shared by two people, a mutual willingness to expose your core to your partner. The ultimate act of trust. Never before had she felt that with anyone, yet in Steve's arms she felt safe and content.

Languishing in the afterglow with Steve's heart thumping a steady tattoo in her ear, Natasha sighed. The orange lights of the city seeped into the window. "JARVIS close the blinds a little," she said.

"Of course Agent Romanoff." The mechanical hum of gears echoed in the room for a moment, the blinds closing and dimming the room into a greyish darkness. Steve nuzzled her neck. A blanket of love and warmth wrapped around her, pulsing zings along her skin that pricked gooseflesh along her arms; she smiled, turning her head to nuzzle his cheek and find his lips. They kissed unhurriedly, drawing out the moment between them as if each second lasted a lifetime.

"Thanks." A smile played along her lips. For a while, she didn't say anything, the silence a comforting blanket over them and the sounds of the night soothing. "You okay?" she asked, running her hand along Steve's arm.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked. "I just made love to the most beautiful woman in the world." A blush splashed across her cheeks; the darkness hid it from his gaze.

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Rogers." The words lacked their usual bite. A little thrill sparked in her belly; knowing Steve saw her as the world's most beautiful woman — the feeling was indescribable.

He chuckled, kissing her. "Not flattery when it's the truth."

She was glad the darkness hid her blush. Steve coaxed all these new intense feelings from her, ones she couldn't remember having with any of the men she previous had relationships with. It made her wonder if this was what the storybooks called true love or if she was just hoping things would continue on path of idyllic bliss. "Can I ask you a question?" The sudden thought danced on the tip of her tongue, a niggling curiosity she couldn't — or wouldn't — lay to rest. He nodded; she licked her lips. "Where… where do you see this relationship going?" He shifted, propping his hand beneath his head, while his other hand continued to stroke her side and sometimes tracing the thick scar on her hip.

"I told you," he said, his tone sounding defensive, "you're my second chance."

It took effort to not sigh and roll her eyes. She grabbed his hand, kissing his palm and lacing their fingers together. "When Clint first rescued me from the Red Room — well it was about a year later, after my therapy and readjusting to being in control of my life — I had this crazy idea of joining the New York ballet — I'd could easily get in — and I'd get this little apartment that over looked the East River." She giggled, hiding her face in his chest. The scent of sweat and his body wash filled her nose, an arousing combination. "I also thought about opening a dance studio. Teach kids ballet."

"I've been looking at apartments in Brooklyn," he said, "it's always been home for me. One of the few things that hasn't really changed in seventy years."

"I found where they moved your parents' graves." A blithe smile spread across her lips. "Took a while" — that smile turned into a sneaky grin — "and swiping a few bottles of Tony's good whiskey."

He arched a brow. "Why did you need whiskey?"

"Payment. Matt told Jessica that I'd give her a bottle of whiskey if she heard me out," she said. The way she saw it, it was a win-win situation: Tony had less access to liquor (which made Pepper happy) and Jessica got two bottles of high end whiskey (which made her happy). "We can go tomorrow if you want, bring them some flowers. I'm sure the caretakers at the cemetery probably are wondering if people will show up for them." Steve didn't say anything. Instead, he pulled away and got out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers. Frowning, she sat up, pulling the blanket up around her chest and watched him walk to the door. "Steve?"

"Thank you" — he looked at her, a melancholic look in his eyes, maybe even the hint of tears — "but I want to go alone. Maybe we can go some other time." He tried to offer her a smile but it fell flat; she nodded anyway. A quick gust of breath left his lips; a forced smile on his face appearing. "You want some popcorn?" he asked, hand resting on the doorframe. "I'm hungry."

She arched a brow. "At this hour?" She flopped back onto the bed, a sigh escaping her lips as she stretched out, enjoying the feel of soft cotton against her skin. "Why don't you come back to bed, lyubimiy." A devious smile spread across her lips. "Stay with me," she purred.

That got a chuckle from him. It was good to see the gloom leaving his eyes. "Nah. I want popcorn. Why don't you set up a movie. Something funny." He walked over and kissed her. "Be back in a few."

"Wait… Steve" — she swallowed — "I… if it's okay I would… I would be honored if you considered… I can come and stay a few days with you when you move back to Brooklyn. Help you move even."

He wrinkled his nose, it was cute and made her want to pepper his face with butterfly kisses. "What are you talking about?" He asked. The statement caught her off guard. Stammering, she tried to back peddle as he came over and sat next to her on the bed, taking her hand in his. "I wasn't gonna move if you didn't want to come with me."

"Steve, I—"

He blushed, looking away. "I just wasn't sure how to ask you, Nat. I want you to come with me" — he tilted his head, a fond sad smile on his face — "what better way to start building a life beyond being Captain America and an Avenger then in a new apartment in Brooklyn with my best girl?"

A sense of belonging swelled in her chest. For as long as she could remember she never had a place to call home, a place where she belonged. Tears stung the corner of her eyes and the sheer power of the emotion constricted her chest. It took her a moment to breathe, swallowing down the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. "You… you want me to move in with you?" It was too good to be true. Surely, Steve wouldn't — but he had told her he was always honest so maybe…

Steve ducked his head, staring at their joined hands. "Wouldn't be home without you, Nat."

The tears came. Sniffling, she wiped at her eyes, furious with herself for showing so much emotion. "I'm sorry," she whispered, an easy smile appearing on her face. "Yes," she said through her tears, "yes, of course I'll come with you." The wide grin on his face was infectious. He hugged her, wrapping her up in his arms. "Now, go get popcorn. I'll pick a movie."

"Yes, ma'am." He stole another kiss, gazing into her eyes for several long moments. Love sparkled in his gaze, love and contentment. Her fingers traced the course stubble on his cheeks; he leaned into her palm and kissed the heel of her hand. "Didn't Darlene bring a cheesecake over?" he asked.

"I think so" — she frowned, trying to remember if Sam mentioned his mother stopping by the tower — "it's probably in the community fridge."

Steve clicked his tongue, straightening. "I'll go check." He head to the door.

"And bring the popcorn!" she reminded him, settling back down into the plush cushions. Thank god for Tony Stark's extravagance, she thought as she picked up the remote and turned the tv on. All the suits had a tv in the bedroom. Pulling up their Netflix playlist, Natasha browsed for a moment, until she found a movie.

* * *

At two in the morning, it didn't surprise Steve that the entire tower was silent. The hum of electricity buzzed behind the walls, powering the LED runner lights on either edge of the carpet and the computer equipment that ran the entire building. The refrigerator kicked in, giving a loud hum as it began its cooling cycle. Steve opened the door, the light bright in the darkness and looked around at the various food items contained with in. "Cheesecake… cheesecake…" Milk. Lettuce. Various types of lunchmeats. Chicken. Pepper made sure the refrigerator was well stocked. Frowning, he didn't see any cheesecake.

"Looking for something, Cap?" a voice asked behind him. Closing the door he turned, spotting Tony, leaning against the doorframe.

"Sam's mom dropped by with a cheesecake," he said, lips pulling down a little in a frown. "Thought it be in the fridge." Tony stalked towards him, the dim light from the runners providing enough light to make out the tattered jeans and ratty Black Sabbath t-shirt on Tony's lean frame. "What are you doing up?"

The other man shrugged. "Tinkering." He opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle of orange juice and drank it straight from the container. "You?" he put it back in the fridge. Silence pressed in around them, the ticking of the clock too loud in his ears. Something felt off about Tony, a viciousness bubbling just below the surface. It reminded Steve of the time on the helicarrier, with Loki's specter oozing out malice that touched each of them. _Everything special about you came from a bottle._ When Tony had said those words, he remembered seeing jealous and rage in his eyes. It was only after the Battle of New York that Pepper took him aside and briefly explained to him how Howard glorified him during Tony's childhood and the Tony felt like he had to live up to his legend in someway. Steve shook off the uncomfortable feeling and went about making popcorn.

"Your friend Wilson stopped by," Tony said, watching him pour the kernels into the air popper. "Said you and Red are invited for dinner Sunday. Something about apartments." Tony sighed, the angry furrow of his brow deepening. Loud popping sounds echoed throughout the kitchen over the hum of the air popper.

"Oh?" Steve tucked the large silver bowl closer to the spout, catching the first few popped kernels. Even as a kid, he found a simple joy in watching popcorn being made. "Did he bring the cheesecake?" A small torrent of popcorn started, and soon the loud popping sound drowned out the hum of the air popper, fluffy white popcorn cascading into the bowl.

"Yeah," Tony said, "Bruce and I had it while we were working in the lab." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "First you tell a reporter that you're thinking of moving to Brooklyn and then you go talk to this Wilson guy about apartments — not once asking me about any of it?"

"Didn't know I needed your permission to move out" — he added more popcorn kernels to the air popper — "and you're buying me another cheesecake."

"Did you even stop to think about the team Rogers?" Tony asked, as the air popper started belching more popcorn. "Or was your head too far up Natasha's pussy that you didn't care anymore?" An overconfident smirk spread across Tony's face. "Didn't think about that, didja? Forgot that JARVIS records everything that goes on in this place."

The countertop cracked, a hand shaped indentation; it took everything he had not to rise to the bait but — God damn it, that was low, even for Tony. Ever since they met, it seemed he and Tony knew just how to hurt the other, pick at the tender scabs they tried to keep hidden from the world. "Didn't know you watched," he said, venom in his words. Never in his life had he hurt anyone out of anger. Growing up in the Depression he had witnessed enough abuse and violence to last a life time, the war didn't help either. Still, all his battles had been out of self-defense: either for himself, his friends or his country. His hands curled into fists. _Do it Captain,_ a voice hissed (it sounded suspiciously like Red Skull's), _show him that you are the superior man._ The seconds ticked by, slowly he unclenched his hands, letting the anger flow out of his muscles. "But," he kept his tone casual as he watched the air popper belch the last few bits of popcorn, "I'd be more worried about how Natasha's gonna react when she finds out you ate our cheesecake."

That confident smirk fell from Tony's face, his normally ruddy cheeks paling to a milky shade. "You and Natasha are gonna break up the team," he said though he lacked his early bravado, "with your little hanky-panky. Gonna lose sight of the mission."

"Which is what?" he asked, walking over to the air popper and unplugging it. "Cleaning up your mistakes?" He opened the fridge again and grabbed out a stick of butter to melt over the popcorn.

"Damn it, Steve." Tony walked in front of him, blocking his path to the microwave. "You didn't see what I did when I sent that nuke into space. I saw them" — Tony shuddered, running a hand over his eyes — "a horde of Chitauri and I heard a voice — it laughed — Jesus Christ, I had nightmares for weeks after that. I couldn't sleep, my insomnia got so bad, I was building suits left and right in an effort to protect myself, Pepper, Happy—"

Steve flared his nostrils, lifting his chin and gazing down at Tony. "Can't sleep cause of nightmares, huh?" He arched a brow. "Try whining to me about that when you've actually seen the horrors I have. I saw the concentration camps" — he jabbed his thumb into his sternum — "hell, I helped liberate a few of them. I saw the inhumanity of the human creature. An army from outer space" — he side stepped Tony and stuck the measuring cup into the microwave — "not that scary." He jammed the buttons and watched the butter melt.

Tony let out a deep breath. "My point is Steve," Tony said, "is that I'm worried that you or Natasha may do something reckless because either one of you may let your personal feelings get in the way." The microwave beeped. "And I don't want that to spell disaster for the Avengers."

"What?" Steve grabbed the melted butter and poured it over the popcorn. "You think that Natasha and I are _that_ unprofessional that we'd compromise a mission like that?" He set the empty measuring cup down and lightly tossed the popcorn around in the bowl. "Did you forget how I got frozen for seventy year?"

"No, Steve, I—"

"I sacrificed myself when I could've easily figured out something to do so I would survive. I had a reason to fight, a reason to come home, yet I didn't let that stop me from doing my duty —"

"I'm not say—"

"So if push comes to shove and I have to make a choice: living my life with Natasha or sacrificing myself for the greater good" — Steve fixed Tony with a hard stare — "I'll always choose the greater good over my own personal desires." He sprinkled some salt over the popcorn. "Now, I'm going to go back to my girlfriend and we plan to move out before Christmas. You're just going to have to deal with that Tony."

"Steve—"

"Tony," Steve said. "I don't care what you have to do to get Darlene to make us another cheesecake: move heaven or earth, grovel at her feet, promise to pay all her bills for the rest of her life" — he gave a jaunty tilt of his head at that — "but get another one. Nat's gonna make your life a living hell when she finds out. That should be motivation enough."

"You… you aren't gonna tell her?" Tony's question came out as a squeak. Steve shrugged. "Steve, c'mon…"

"I told her I was gonna get the cheesecake and popcorn. I only have the popcorn." He shrugged, watching as Tony silently panicked. "Night Tony."

* * *

The city glittered like a jewel in the night. Street lights and gleaming billboards; points of light against the black night and snow. Looking down at Manhattan from the higher floors of Avengers Tower always gave him a sense of superiority, like a king gaze down upon his kingdom. Yet, instead Tony felt helpless. A small man in a tin can, trying to stop something much larger and unseen from himself. While Steve's threat of Natasha making his life hell was sufficient motivation to get a new cheesecake, it paled in comparison to the haunting knowledge that their planet was a fragile blue speck in a hostile universe. _A suit of armor around the world, Bruce. An AI that could do the job of the Avengers._ It was what he and Bruce had been tinkering around in the lab today. Project: Ultron, a suit of armor that would protect the world. The idea was tantalizing, sparking that creative imagination he had whenever a new project came up. The next evolution of Iron Man.

Bruce had been hesitant, reminding him of what happened to Shield and Project: Insight, the original intent of Project: Insight. Regardless, he plowed ahead, eroding Bruce's fears. Project: Insight had been made by Hydra, the algorithm crafted by Zola. Ultron would be their creation, a benevolent AI — they were the good guys, and their creation would be good. Bruce conceded and they spent the rest of the day and half of the night tackling the math of such a system. The leaps in artificial intelligence and robotics needed: JARVIS would be the base blueprint for Ultron. The logistics required to get the machinery into orbit — well, he was Tony Stark, he had billions, it wouldn't be a problem. Especially if he could get Carol to help schlep some of the larger pieces into orbit.

Yet the one hiccup in this grand altruistic idea was the AI itself. It would need to be a true AI. One that could _feel_. It would need to care about the Earth and the life this planet sustained. While JARVIS was advanced for AI systems, he didn't have the emotional capacity to _care_. JARVIS was ultimately ruled by logic. Ultron needed to be different, he needed to possess the consciousness of a human. "How do we crack that nut?" Tony muttered, staring out the window.

"I always found nut smashing worked best with a hammer," Carol said, walking up to him. "Nice night." She looked at the sky. "One thing I hate about living in New York is that I can never see the stars."

"You can fly up high enough and see them." He gestured to the snow. "It's snowing."

"Not the same," she said, thumb stroking the blanket. "Steve seemed pissed about something." Tony arched a brow. "I was talking with Natasha when he came in with popcorn."

"Oh." Tony bit his lip. "He and I had a spat about his relationship with Natasha. It's nothing." The conversation ebbed, trickling down to a companionable silence. Carol's eyes were rimmed with red, hair disheveled. While he didn't know her as well as Natasha or Steve, he would call her a friend. "You okay?"

"Fine." She sniffed, rubbing her nose. "Just got a lot on my mind." Blue and red flashed down below, as a cop car sped along the road after a criminal. "If you could talk with your dad for one day… what would you say to him."

The question caught him off guard. Howard Stark had always been an indomitable figure in his life, a mountain he could never climb over. Howard made the family fortune and Tony always got the sense that he had to exceed his father's brilliance. Nothing he ever did seemed to be _good enough_ for Howard, and he guessed that's why he always acted out. Wanting his father's attention — even if it was negative. Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I" — he swallowed — "I'm not sure what I'd say. I have a love-hate relationship with my dad — more hate than love when I look back at it" — he closed his eyes, tipping his head back — "I'd give anything to have one more day with my mom though. To hug her, to tell her how much I love her, to tell her I'm sorry for not being a better son." Tony sniffed, pressing his thumb to his eyes to wipe away the beginnings of tears. He looked at Carol. "You?"

Carol didn't say anything, stroking the edge of the blanket with her thumb as she watched the traffic drift through the streets; the snow zigzagging to the ground. "I don't know" — a sigh escaped her — "I'd probably punch him in the face. My dad was a sexist drunk that hit my brothers. Wouldn't hit me though, just belittled me. Feels like all my problems stem from him… but then" — she paused — "I… I found out some things about my family over Thanksgiving" — she bit her lip — "still trying to wrap my head around it. Kinda hate my mom now too."

"Nothing earth shattering, I hope," he said, trying to make the conversation light. The heaviness made him queasy. Carol snorted, pulling the blanket around her tighter. "Carol… if, I know you are closer to Red and Rogers — but I'm here for you. I've dealt with family issues, hell I'm still dealing with family issues and my parents are dead" — he glanced at his feet — "I'm here for you. If you need someone to talk to… that isn't Red and Rogers."

"Thanks Tony." The smile she gave him didn't reach her eyes. She looked at the sky, a rainbow of color flashed across her face and a spark of pure joy appeared in her eyes. "Kinda get the feeling that families are meant to be broken. I used to think mine was perfect — well that the love between them was perfect" — she gave a rueful snort — "that's a bunch of bullshit."

Tony nodded, understanding. All the press appearances, the accolades, magazine articles declaring what a wonderful family the Starks were — all lies. Beautiful glittering fabrications that hid the rotten truth — the Stark family was broken. "You don't think Rogers will" — he licked his lips, running his hand along his goatee — "he's not the type to be clouded by love?" he asked. Carol looked at him, arching a brow. Tony huffed, shuffling his feet. "It's" — he paused — "nothing. I'm just paranoid."

"Don't be," Carol said, squeezing his shoulder. "Steve's a good man." She headed towards the door. "Oh, don't forget tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he frowned. "What's going on tomorrow?" Pepper wouldn't forget to tell him that he had a meeting. She may be CEO of Stark Industries, but it was still his company, he was still involved — to a degree — with the decision making. "Do I have a meeting?"

Carol laughed. "No, that school tour is happening tomorrow." He swore. "Also, tell Pepper I'm not showing my face. I told JARVIS to inform anyone that I'm not to be disturbed."

"But this is all because of you and that fiasco with that senator!"

Carol shrugged. "I rather not throw brats out the window, Tony" — she gave him a smile — "get some sleep." She vanished into the shadows of the elevator, leaving him in the penthouse suite of the Tower. Sighing, Tony turned away from the window.

"Sir?" JARVIS asked.

"Close the blinds." Tony rounded the corner, walking down the dim hall as the blinds hummed closed. The door to his bedroom hissed open and he stripped to his boxers on his way to the bed. The faint light from the runner lights around the perimeter of the room gave him enough light to see Pepper's form in bed. A lump formed in his throat. Ultron would allow him to be with Pepper — maybe even cultivate their relationship further. He no longer had a damaged heart to worry about. Shaking his head, he pulled back the covers and slipped in. Pepper made a soft sound when his cold feet brushed against her legs.

"Tony?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep as she rolled over and snuggled against his side. He looped his arm around her, relaxing into the feeling of her by his side. Her hand rested over the scar where his arch reactor once rested in the center of his chest.

"Go back to sleep, Pep," he whispered, running his fingers through her hair, the faint scent of pomegranates drifting up to his nose. Pepper made a soft hum and he shifted onto his side, pulling her closer, kissing her head. "I got you."

* * *

Wind whistled through the broken window, blowing his bangs back from his face, the cold pinching his cheeks red and he squinted against the glare of the rising sun. Static crackled from the radio and he pressed the button joystick, ending the silence. "Come in, this is Captain Rogers," he said into the radio, hoping at least one of the Commandos was at the radio station in the Hydra base. He set his compass against the altimeter — the picture blurry. "Do you read me?"

"Captain Rogers, what is your—" Static. Steve felt his heart in his throat. Below him, miles of grey ocean and gleaming ice stretched as far as the eye could see. If he crashed nobody would know where he was — and nobody would be injured. It may be his only choice. He clenched his hands around the joystick to keep from shaking. "Steve is that you? Are you all right?" a woman's voice asked.

"Great" — he licked his lips, pressing his shoulders against the seat to sit up straighter — "Schmidt's dead."

"What about the plane?" the woman asked — he knew that voice, it was a bit husky and reminded him of long nights in small beds, teasing kisses that tasted of vodka. It was hard to breathe.

"That's a little bit tougher to explain." He glanced down at the map, the plane on a dead course towards New York — his home.

"Give me your coordinates I'll find you a safe lading site."

There was no landing site for miles. Even if there was, he wouldn't want to set this plane down. He didn't know what type of booby trap Schmidt had set if the plane got captured by the enemy. Schmidt may have been an arrogant son of a bitch, but he was intelligent and he would have prepared for a scenario where his precious Valkyrie got captured. "There's not going to be a safe landing" — the truth tasted bitter on his tongue as he realized what he _needed_ to do — "I'm going to try and force it down."

"I'm going to get" — static crackled through the radio — "he'll know what to do."

By the time anyone figured out what to do it would be too late. There was only one choice. He was a soldier. He knew when he agreed to Erskine's opportunity that he may be required to sacrifice himself and he thought he made peace with that but that was before he met _her_. "There's not enough time. This thing's moving too fast and it's heading for New York" — he licked his lips, steeling himself for what he had to say next — "I'm gotta put her in the water."

"Please, don't do this. We have time, we can work it out." The plea broke his heart. The sun crested the horizon, a brilliant promise of a new day — the last one he'll ever see. When he came out of the pod he thought he'd see hundreds of new days; live a long, long life — instead today was the last one he'll ever see. The realization was humbling and he felt at peace.

"Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere" — he glanced at the map again, he was just exiting the Artic Circle up around northeastern Canada — "If I wait any longer a lot of people are going to die." And I can't let that happen. He wiggled the joystick, the plane wobbled and he knew he had some control over it, that he could force it down. Static crackled on the radio. "Natasha," he said, tasting her name on his tongue. "This is my choice." Silence. For once he was glad for the wind whipping in his face, it pushed away his tears. "Nat?"

"I'm here," she said. He let out a quick breath and pushed down on the joystick, forcing the nose of the plane to angle down towards the ice. The impact would kill him — at least it would be a quick death. Though it did little to assuage the fact he was going to die.

"I'm going to need a rain check on that dance," he said, it was an empty request — they both knew it but it made everything feel a little last tragic, a little less forever.

"You got it." Natasha's voice was steady as she told him the club and the time. "Don't you dare be late. Understood?"

He laughed, even as the sheet of ice kept coming towards him faster and faster, the sun bright and the snow glittering. Bucky, his mother and father — he'll be able to see them again in a few moments. "You know I still don't know how to dance."

"I do" — he could hear the smile in her voice — "and I'll show you. It's not that hard. You just need to be there."

"We'll have the band play something slow" — he could smell the ocean now, cold and salty, the rush of waves over the drone of the engine — "I'd hate to step on your—"

Steve gasped, flinging himself towards the foot of the bed. Panic shuddered along his nerves, muscles tensed and he struggled to see through the grey darkness. Cold. So cold. Sucking in great breaths of air, he counted to twenty, realizing he was in his bedroom — he could feel the warmth tingling in his fingers and toes — in the Avengers Tower. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Sitting on his knees — shaking — he put his face in his hands, feeling tears against his palms. Just a dream. Just a dream.

"Steve?" Natasha's sleepy voice asked in the darkness and he heard the bed squeak as she shifted. Her small hand fell on his shoulder and he flinched, slapping her hand away.

"Don't touch me." Guilt pulled in his gut as he slid off the bed and walked to the window, pushing back the blinds and staring down at the city. Pale grey light illuminated Manhattan. Snow covered the sidewalks and streets like powder sugar, the city resembled a winter wonderland. The lights from the street lamps and signs cast different colors on the snow and people hurried along, leaving tracks of slush in their wake. His breath fogged the glass, imagines of the nightmare flashed in his mind's eye. It felt so real. _If I had to choose between living my life with Natasha or sacrificing myself for the greater good: I'll always choose the greater good over my own personal desires._ Those words bounced around in his skull, feeling like a jackhammer breaking through concrete. Sighing, he pressed his forehead against the glass, closing his eyes.

The soft rustling of sheets broke the still silence. "Are you okay, Steve?" Natasha asked, coming over to stand besides him. She didn't touch him, folding her arms over her chest instead. He nodded, not trusting his voice in the moment. She sighed. "Do you want to talk about it?" A pause. "I'll listen."

"No" — he frowned — "maybe" — he ran his hand through his hair — "I don't know." He heaved a great sigh, staring at the city below him. It changed so much in the seventy years he was frozen but at the same time it hadn't. "Just a nightmare Nat," he said after a few moments. "Nothing to worry about."

"That's the thing" — she hesitated for half a heartbeat, before putting her hand on his shoulder. He twitched beneath her gentle touch but didn't lash out — "I am. You've been having them a lot recently."

He grabbed took her hand, squeezing it in a comforting manner. "Probably just battle fatigue — what did that headshrinker at Shield called it — PTSD" — he gave her a smile — "nothing to worry about. I'll be fine. Just gotta sort it out myself."

"Steve, I think you really need to see a therapist about—"

"I'm not going to see a headshrinker!" he snapped, eyes blazing. "What are they gonna do to me? Strap electrodes to my head and give me a good jolt? Lobotomize me? Hell no. I'm not having any of that. I'm fine."

Natasha shook her head, reaching for his face but he took a step back. With a sigh, she put her hands on her hips. "Psychiatric treatment has come a long, long way since the 1940s Steve. Lobotomy and electric shock therapy is highly unethical and I don't know any psychiatrist worth his or her salt that's willing to perform the procedures today. Most don't want to prescribe drugs unless the case calls for it" — she fixed him with a hard look — "I know because I've been there before. Fury wouldn't clear me for duty until I passed a psych-eval. The only reason he even skipped steps for you was because we had Loki and his Chitauri to deal with. And you were boneheaded enough to jump back in — feet first — without even letting a psychiatrist treat you for obvious PTSD!"

"I'm _fine_ ," he said. "It's just a bad dream. Wasn't even real."

Natasha let out a long sigh, running her hand through her hair as she stepped towards him. He watched her, wary like a cornered animal, but let her wrap him up in a hug. "The dream may be fictional but the physical reaction, the emotions you're feeling — those are very real Steve." She kissed him. "Talk to Sam, _please_ , he's dealt with this before. He's helped others in similar situations —"

"Nobody has a similar situation to mine," he said, pulling away. "I was frozen for seventy years! Frozen. In ice." He kicked his shield from where it was propped up against the wall. The colorful disc spun, clattering to a stop, the patriotic colors mocking him. Captain America: stalwart, brave, courageous, honorable, America's Golden Boy — he felt less and less like that every day. "Who else has survived for seventy years frozen in ice besides me?" Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and he plopped onto the bed. The urge to just cry felt all consuming, but he held it back, biting his lip as he stared at his feet.

"I can't imagine what you're going through, Steve," she said, sitting next to him and taking his hand. "Nobody can. But instead of focusing on the negatives, on how uncanny everything is, maybe you should look at the positives. You got to meet Sam."

A tiny smile appeared on his face. "I got to meet you," he said, pushing some of her hair behind her ear. Natasha's hair always felt soft beneath his fingers, it helped soothe him, ground him in the here and now. He pressed his forehead against hers, smiling. "You make every minute I spent in the ice worth it."

"Hold on to that then," she said, "you'll get through this Steve. I promise. And I'll be right by your side through it all." Their lips met, a tender kiss to express emotions that neither could put into words. "C'mon," she said, "let's go back to sleep. We have that class coming today." She pulled away and crawled back into bed. Sighing, he followed suit, smiling when she snuggled against him and he ran his fingers through her hair.

"Don't think I can go back to sleep," he said, as she pulled the blanket over them. "Keep seeing snippets of that dream whenever I close my eyes."

"Then just close your eyes and lay still, you'll feel better, trust me," she said and pressed a kiss against his pec. A sigh escaped him, as he stared at the ceiling, his hand resting on her head. "Don't stop."

"Hm?"

"I like it when you play with my hair. It's… nice."

A smile spread across his face. "Oh." He shifted, resuming stroking her hair. Natasha sighed, soft and content, her breathing evening out as she returned to sleep. For long minutes that felt like eternity, he stared at the ceiling and traced the shadows in the darkness. Eventually, he closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath and drifting into a light doze. Natasha was right, he needed to look on the positive side of things: Sam, her, Bucky was alive (missing and damaged but alive — that gotta count for something right?) and so many of the troubles that had plagued society and him growing up had been corrected or eradicated. The world was a better place than it was in the 1940s. As sleep tugged him back into unconsciousness he remembered something Patton told him years ago: To a good soldier, there is no such thing as _unfamiliar territory_. You either plan where you're going or you make the terrain your own the second your boots touch the ground.

A sense of direction filled him, assuaging his anxiety, allowing him to find peace: he was, after all, a soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> I googled how they treated PTSD in the 40s. Very interesting.


	19. Catch Your Dying Breath

Natasha woke up cold and alone. The pale stream of sunlight shown through the blinds, the grey of early morn banished back to the twilit regions at the edge of the horizon. Sitting up, Natasha noticed — it felt like for the first time really — how _spartan_ Steve's entire suite was. It appeared that the bookshelf and his closet contained all his worldly possessions. Even his bed had two military standard wool blankets. A shiver trembled through her body and it dawned on her that being snuggled up to Steve kept the cold at bay, crafting the illusion that two wool blankets and a thin top sheet was enough to stave off the cold. Grumbling, formulating a plan to convince Steve to spend more time in her suite (with her thick down comforter and thick throw) until they moved out of the tower, Natasha slipped from the bed and gathered her clothes for some warmth. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Agent Romanoff?"

"Is the heating out?" She pulled on her robe and slipped her feet into a pair of fuzzy socks. Steve didn't bother to make coffee before disappearing to wherever he went. The blinds rolled back with a soft hum, revealing Manhattan, the city already bustling with activity, the window displaying the temperature (somewhere around the high thirties considering the hour, last night's snow had turned into a chilling rain). She doubted that Steve was out running in this weather. There could be ice, he could slip and break a hip. The silly old man trope caused her to smile.

"You had me turn it off last night because — and I quote —"

A blush crept up her neck. "That won't be necessary JARVIS," she said, "could you turn it back on? I'm cold." She opened the cupboard, pulling out the coffee and filters. "Where's Steve?" she asked, turning on the coffee machine and listening to it gurgle as it pumped water through it's system. In a few moments the heady luxurious aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, waking her up.

"In the gym," the AI said. "Shall I inform him you have coffee ready?"

The gym? She frowned as she poured a cup for herself and poured Steve's into a travel mug. What was he doing down in the gym. "How long has he been there?"

"A few hours. He has been there since 3:45 am." She frowned. They went to bed around two in the morning. The serum staved off fatigue, but even Steve needed sleep. "I will inform him."

A frown twisted her lips as she added milk and sugar. "Thank you." She sipped her coffee, letting the liquid spread warmth throughout her body. Why did Steve go to the gym at almost four in the morning? Why was he pulling away from her when she felt like they had started getting much closer, using each other to work through their own problems and accept each other. Granted, she still hadn't told him about Barnes (or that she and Barnes had once been lovers or that Barnes _still_ had feelings for her) but she had told him a few of her secrets. Trust in the Red Room got you killed — she had learned that at an early age as she watched girls fight each other (both openly and covertly) in an effort to survive the grueling training program. Whittling the candidates down until only she remained. _You are made of marble._ Natasha let out a breath, closing her eyes and took another sip of coffee. The inhumane things she did in the Red Room in order to survive still haunted her and she doubted she'll ever find the courage to divulge those atrocities to Steve. Clint knew some of them, but not all of them. And not even Clint knew that a part of her — a very small part — _enjoyed_ the wetwork the KGB had her do. That's the thing with training children to kill: their young minds mold it into a game and like all games, it ends up being _fun_. Natasha shuddered and took a large gulp of coffee, scalding her tongue and throat. The pain cleared her head, refocusing her on the present. Checking the lid on the travel mug, she slipped it into the pocket of her robe and headed towards the gym.

The tower was pleasantly quiet at this hour, the shadows a deep grey and fading as the sunlight began to appear. Stepping into the elevator she smiled at Tony, who looked disheveled in his faded _Black Sabbath_ t-shirt and jeans. "Morning Stark," she said and sipped her coffee.

Tony cleared his throat. "Good morning Natasha," he said, voice an octave higher than normal. "Can I say" — he turned her — "that you look ravaging this morning" — she arched a brow — "and your hair is… what do you do to make it so shiny and red? I can see why Rogers likes it."

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You aren't usually this hyper verbal this early in the morning." She fixed him with a curious stare. Sweat beaded at his brow and he ran his hand along his jaw, pressing a button that stopped the elevator. "Did Pepper threaten you to behave when the kids are here or something?" It was extreme — even for Pepper. "Are you high? Did she spike your coffee?"

"Don't worry about me, Romanoff," Tony said as he stepped out of the elevator. "You'll have no reason to want to kill me. I'll make sure everything goes according to plan. Best behavior. No craziness. Promise." Tony waved as the door closed. Flummoxed, Natasha returned it with a little one of her own as the elevator door's closed. Tony had always been scared of her, ever since she spied on him back in 2010 and she was personally convinced that he expected her to gut him in his sleep if she felt murderous enough to do so, but this — this was different. It felt like a child trying to convince a parent to _not_ execute the punishment for a misdeed.

* * *

The elevator descended towards the gym; the skyscrapers blocking out the morning sun, creating a grey gloomy gloaming of rain splattered windows and sleet covered streets, people carrying umbrellas. Others covered their heads with their briefcases or newspapers, running through the freezing rain to their destinations. The elevator dinged, a smooth voice announcing the gym as the doors sighed opened. The smell of chalk and sweat and leather and wood polish filled her nose, the harsh fluorescent lights stung her eyes, and the sounds of fists beating a punching bag echoed in the large empty space. "Steve?" she padded her way into the gym. "Steve?" Steve stood in a corner with his back to her, engrossed in his work out. Sighing, she walked over, standing just within range of her peripheral vision. The cup in her hand was empty, but the heat remained and the gym was cold; she could smell the dust in the air from the AC system. Time ticked by; she leaned against one of the support beams, pressing the cooling cup against her throat. Steve yelled, throwing a punch that sent the bag flying, the chain breaking and the heavy bag splitting as it hit the opposite wall. "Impressive." She gave him a smile when his gaze finally fell on her. Sashaying over to him she said, "if I didn't know better, I would've guessed you have anger issues that rival Bruce's." She pulled out the travel mug. "Coffee." She put it in his hands and pecked his lips. "Just like you like it."

"Thanks." He wiped his brow and took a long sip of coffee. "You can go back to bed," he said, setting the mug down by her feet and walking over to the dwindling pile of punching bags. "I'll be up later for breakfast and to see the kids."

She shrugged. "Nah" — a smile graced her lips — "I'm awake now." She watched him hang up the new punching bag and take a few experimental jabs at it before settling into a steady rhythm. "Ran across Stark in the elevator."

"Yeah?"

"He said my hair was pretty and understands why you like it. Asked how I get it so red and shiny." She chuckled, amused. "Acted like I was about to gut him or something."

"Heh." Steve shot her a smile. "Finally something he and I agree on." The bag swayed after a strong jab from his knee, which he side-stepped with practiced ease.

"Why don't you come back up to my suite. Take a shower and close your eyes for a little bit before the kids get here. You got what? An hour of sleep last night?"

He paused, frowning. "I'm fine, Nat." She arched a brow, glancing at the pile of busted punching bags. "Just got a lot of things rattlin' around in my head, working it out the only way I know how."

"By working yourself into an early grave?" she touched his arm, stopping him. "Steve, please. Clean up. I'll make you some breakfast. Steak and eggs." He gave her a world weary sigh as he took her hand and kissed her palm.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry." His smile didn't reach his guilt ridden eyes. Natasha swallowed, trying to figure out if she should push the subject or just let him be. "I love you," he said, as if trying to assuage her worry.

A sigh passed through her lips. "I love you too," she said, "but I also worry about you Steve because of that love. The world — to the world you're Captain America: this glittering golden ideal of American virtue and heroism, but—"

"They don't see the ugly side of who I am." He picked up the travel mug and took a long swallow.

"I was going to say that the world doesn't know that to me you're just Steve and I" — she licked her lips — "I don't like seeing you hurting like this."

"I'm fine."

"I said that a lot too after Clint rescued me. He also told me that was code for not being fine." She took his hand, squeezing his fingers, the cloth coarse against her skin. "You aren't alone Steve, I can help."

"Thanks for the coffee," he said, pulling his hand free from her grasp. "I'm going to take a shower" — he saluted her with the travel mug — "think I'll take you up on that offer of breakfast. Like my eggs sunny side up." He walked out of the gym.

"JARVIS?" she asked, watching the punching bag sway.

"Yes, Agent Romanoff?"

"You monitor our vital signs—"

"Constantly. I monitor all vital signs, including: heart rate, breathing, blood pressure and brain wave patterns. Is there something you need?"

"Steve's sleeping patterns" — she swallowed, this felt like invading his privacy — "are they normal?"

"Not in a strict medical sense. He definitely has trouble sleeping and exhibits abnormal REM activity indicative of someone that suffers constant nightmares. You on the other hand appear —"

"Thank you," she said, feeling as if she ran five kilometers. "That's all JARVIS."

* * *

Steve entered her suite looking tired and forlorn, like he decided to give Atlas a break and carry the world upon his shoulders for a spell. Red rimmed his eyes and he walked as if his steps weighed ten thousand pounds. "Hey." Steve didn't bother to smile as he sat down and accepted another cup of coffee. "Smells good." He sipped his coffee. "Cinnamon?"

"Made those frozen ones you get next to the ice cream," she said as she pulled a plate from the cupboard and slapped the steak on it followed by eggs — sunny side up — and some tatter tots. "They'll be done in a few minutes." She set the plate in front of him and kissed his cheek. A tiny thrill warmed her belly as he smiled at her and thanked her for the food. "Ketchup" — she placed the bottle in front of him — "since you're weird and like on your eggs."

"Taste good." He squirted a dollop over each yoke and then zigzagged it over the tatter tots. The artificial red glop covering his food did not — in her opinion — look good. Steve dug into his breakfast without his usual gusto. Natasha got the feeling it he was on autopilot, his mind a million miles (or a lifetime) away from here. The oven beeped and she pulled out the cinnamon rolls. Laura would make cinnamon rolls during the winter, filling the house with the warm sugary scents of cinnamon and frosting. Laura always made hers from scratch, and Natasha had been wondering if she'll even give her the recipe. Still, these would do in a pinch and she slathered them with the pre-made icing before putting on a plate for Steve. He grunted his acknowledgement as she sat down with her own.

"So Pepper wants us to get into our uniforms," she said. The idea of sixth graders swarming the tower, poking and prodding, asking inane questions and wanting to touch everything insight — she rather face an army of Chitauri than deal with kids. It wasn't that she hated kids, she just had a thing about strangers' kids. "You know, for photos and cause the kids thing we live in our uniforms." Steve nodded, dragging a tatter tot through a puddle of yoke on his plate. That dark niggling thought that gnawed at the base of her brain reared its ugly head: Steve no longer wants to be with her. Natasha took a bite of her cinnamon bun.

"I can't do this," Steve said, pushing his plate away. Natasha looked at the half eaten breakfast. Steve _gobbled_ up breakfast every morning — especially after a workout. "I'm sorry but I can't."

"Do what?" she asked, frowning and hoping anger — or something — would appear that she can grasp on to so she could push through the fear that squirmed in her belly. "Did I make the steak too rare? Are the buns burnt?" He shook his head and she reached for his hand; he pulled away. Rejection stung razor sharp, and Natasha had to bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood to keep her head level. Training took over as Natalia scrambled in the darkness for the Widow's cold comforting hand. Natasha blinked, arching a brow. "Do what, Steve?" she repeated, her voice cool.

"I can't…" he gestured to the breakfast set up in front of them. "I" — he swallowed, taking short shallow breaths. The signs became insidiously apparent as soon as she put two and two together. She had her fair share of anxiety attacks. — "I'm _scared_ Nat. So fucking scared. I can't… I can't" — he rubbed his chest — "Can't breathe. Feels like an asthma attack… haven't had one in years." He leaned against the chair, running his hand down his face. Muted grey sunlight glinted off the steel and glass of the skyscrapers. A tear or two glittered on his cheek before he wiped it away. "I can't" — he hung his head — "I'm not strong enough to go through it again." Nosy silence pressed in close with each breath echoing in her ears, the hum of the electricity in the walls and Steve's muffled sobs.

The Widow froze. No Red Room training prepared her for this. Emotions meant weakness, weakness meant death. Natasha rose gracefully from her chair and knelt besides Steve, placing her hands over his. "Steve," she said, her voice soft and coaxing. "What's wrong?"

"I can't do it again Nat," he said, "Not again... I can't" — he sniffed, trying to blink away the tears that clung to his lashes — "I don't want—"

"Deep breaths," she said as she rubbed his arm. "Deep breaths, darling." She hummed softly, patient as death, waiting for Steve to collect himself. "Try again. What's wrong?"

"I — My dream," he said, "it was about when I crashed the Valkyrie. It was the same except…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I told Tony that… Tony asked me last night if I had to choose between having a life with you or saving the world… I told him I would save the world."

"I know" — a warm smile graced her lips — "I always knew you would. You're that type of person Steve. Selfless. Your heart is too big for your chest and you'd succor all the hapless souls if you could." She wiped away a tear; he leaned into her touch. "I wouldn't ask you to be anything other than who you are."

"That's… the thing is I don't want to do that. I did that once and it cost me a life with Peggy" — he looked at her, blue eyes bloodshot with a maelstrom of guilt and fear rolling in his gaze — "I don't want to do it again." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Instead of Peggy it was you on the other end. We promised each other a dance that would never happen. And I… I can't go through that again. I'm scared that if another situation were my personal desires or the world hang in the balance that I'll choose the world and end up in the ice for another seventy years. I'll be leaving you behind. I'll be abandoning you."

"Next time you have to crash a plane, remember to bring a parachute" — she smiled, trying to add some lightness to the situation — "that way you can jump out."

He scowled. "I'm serious." He pulled her into a tight hug. "I'm scared of losing you because… because I'm a self sacrificing idiot."

"And I'm serious too, Rogers" — she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her — "You set a plane on a crash course, but make damn sure you jump out of it before it hits the ground."

"Nat—"

"You have something to come home to, to fight for—"

Steve pulled his face free from her grasp. "I had Peggy" — a rueful snort — "didn't seem like enough motivation."

"Peggy was a maybe, a what if. What we have" — she took his hands — "it's real. We're planning on moving into together, building a life outside of the Avengers that's peaceful and quiet. You could go back to art school, open up your own gallery — sure Pepper can convince Stark to fund it — and we'll still fight, I don't think we can ever stop doing good or helping people when they need it, but we have each other now. I'm here Steve. I've been here — by your side — since you woke up from the ice" — she smirked — "that's a lot more than what Peggy did. And I don't mean that to sound callous, but it's the truth."

"I know," he said.

"Promise me one thing" — she settled herself in his lap, content when he wrapped his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair — "that you'll always fight to come home to me. Do whatever you need to — just come home."

"I promise," he said, kissing her brow. "I promise."

She looked at him, noting the bags and the red rimming his eyes. The serum did wonders: staving off fatigue and signs of aging, yet right now it hit her that Steve was pushing one hundred and he showed it. "Maybe you should sit this one out. I'll tell Pepper you aren't feeling good and that you can't come and—"

He shook his head. "No." He sighed, holding her tight. "I'll go. Can't disappoint the kids. They always got a kick outta me punching Hitler back in the day. Got used to the majority of my audience being twelve." Still, he made no effort to roused her from his lap and she wasn't about to complain. They could be a few minutes late. "You know, my mother is probably rolling in her grave."

"Why?"

He chuckled. "Promised her I'd never join the army and get myself killed the way my da did. What do I go do? Join the Army and crash a plane into the Greenland ice shelf."

"Captain," JARVIS said, "Miss Potts requests you and Agent Romanoff come to the common room, the children have arrived."

* * *

"I hate kids," she said, adjusting her Widow Bites. She could hear Steve's incredulous stare. "Stare any louder and I'll have to kick your teeth out."

"I thought you _liked_ kids, though. I mean you're good with Cl—" Steve grunted when she elbowed him. "Ow."

"There's a difference between children of your family and children of strangers. Family I can deal with. Not snot-nose brats from strangers." The elevator doors sighed open as Bruce stepped in. "You look nice," she said. For once, Bruce didn't look like he hadn't done laundry in a month, his brown hair was combed and he recently cleaned his glasses. He even had a pocket protector in in his breast pocket.

"Thanks." Bruce rubbed his palms on his thighs. The elevator hummed a sigh as it continued its way to the common floor. "I shouldn't be doing this. I should've told Pepper that I had an important appointment or some time critical experiment I'm doing." He looked at them, raw fear in his eyes. "Monica Rappaccini is doing cutting edge gamma research in Italy" — he swallowed — "you can tell Pepper she called last minute and requested that I consult."

"You'll be fine Bruce," she said. "Just build a volcano for the kids and ramble some science stuff." She shrugged. "They'll be too in awe at being in Avengers Tower to really rile you up."

"A volcano?" Bruce asked, his jaw dropping. "You want me to do a basic kindergarten science project when we're in a — a _scientific paradise_?" His voice jumped an octave. "They aren't gonna settle for a cheap baking soda and vinegar side show, Natasha. They'll want me to blow something up."

"Why don't you so them some of that virtual reality stuff?" Steve suggested. "The type you don't need goggles to see."

"Augmented reality?" Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know Cap. I'm just… kids are twitchy. They're like electrons. They never sit still. They zip around from one place to another and I don't know if… what if I go green?" Natasha heard the fear in his voice.

"You won't," Steve said, squeezing his shoulder. "And even if you do, I know Hulk won't hurt kids. You're _both_ heroes."

Pride swelled in her chest. Seeing the good in people, no matter how much they refused to see it — that was Steve's superpower, what made him such a good person. Why she loved him. Bruce bowed his head, a small smile twitching its way onto his lips. "Thanks Steve," he said, his voice a raspy whisper, "that means… that means a lot to me. Really."

"We have arrived," JARVIS said, "remember smiles." The doors sighed opened. The common area was a large open space that spanned the entire diameter of the tower. From the windows she could see the city in all of it's glory, sun glittering off glass and steel, a interwoven network of sidewalks and streets, crisscrossing in a convoluted pattern. Some of the children had gathered at the windows, Tony showing off in an areal display of agility. Each hoop he flew through dinged. Another group circled Thor. The god laughed, encouraging the kids to try and lift his hammer. Clint was doing trick shots with bottle caps, the kids cheering whenever he hit his mark. It didn't take long for the children to swarm them, babbling questions and asking for autographs. Natasha glanced at Bruce, who looked queasy but directed a group of kids (and one parent) to the mini-lab on the floor, and was explaining the advancements in augmented reality and what it could mean for the future. The kids even dragged Steve off to another corner, where he was busy doing simple tricks with his shield and feats of strength.

A few bold girls attempted to come to her, awe in their eyes at the infamous Black Widow. The jaundice eyed chaperons intercepted the girls, steering them towards one of the other Avengers. "Don't know why they even let her be on the team," one mother hissed to her companion. "Did you read what she leaked from Shield — what _she did_?"

"Never mind what she did, it's how she did it. Wouldn't be surprised it she betrayed the country sooner or later" — the second mother shot a glower at her — "bet she's still working for Putin. Don't understand why they haven't locked her up yet."

"Honestly!" the first mother said. "Can you believe Captain America is _dating_ her? What has this country turned into when _our_ hero is dating a Russian spy?"

Natasha swallowed the tightness in her throat. Ignoring the stinging pain of their words and the visceral reaction to defend Steve choosing her seemed harder to do than before. None of the children came over to her, having witnessed the reaction of the parents and avoided her for the more 'family approved' heroes.

"Natasha," Bruce said, coming over to stand by her side. "Is the bravest woman I know" — he beamed at the kids, a critical eye cast to the parents — "she closed the portal that let the Chitauri in. JARVIS." An augmented reality screen appeared, glowing a pale glacial water turquoise. Natasha watched as she pierced the sapphire blue energy shield with Loki's scepter, cutting the energy to the portal and closing it. The kids marveled in awe. Several girls glanced and her before whispering to each other, nodding. The parents harrumphed. If their minds were changed they didn't show it. "Who's afraid of the Hulk?" Bruce asked, his smile never wavering. Several hands shot up. "I get that. The Hulk is scary but he's really not." Natasha arched a brow, wondering what Bruce was playing at. He was the first to caution everyone about what a danger Hulk can be. The destruction the giant green rage monster can unleash.

"The Hulk only smashes," a boy said, unconvinced.

Bruce nodded. "True. But the Hulk does more than smash. JARVIS." The image on the screen changed. The video quality was poor, grainy, like from a security camera feed. Rubble fell all around the Hulk, who was hunched over as if protecting an egg. Roaring, he shook himself, tossing more concrete and rubble aside before standing. Huddled beneath his giant viridian frame was a small family, the mother and father clutching their children protectively. Hulk snorted and smashed a hole in the wall, allowing a firefighter to help the family to safety. The daughter gave Hulk a quick hug around his tree-trunk ankle before escaping with her family.

"Aw, Bruce you aren't showing them the best one!" Tony said, hovering by the window, and the screen flicked again. Hulk stood among the rubble of the Tower, Loki berating him. Clearly annoyed with the inane prattling of Thor's brother, the green giant grabbed the Asgardian and tossed him like a rag doll from side to side. Bruce made a face as the children laughed. Hulk snorted and said _puny god_ , before stomping off.

"To be honest," Pepper said, walking up to her. "I was worried this would be a huge disaster." The other woman offered her a smile. "You okay?"

Natasha nodded. "Yeah, fine." She tucked her hands into her armpits. "It seems like everything is going okay," she said as one of the windows opened up to let Tony back in. He stepped out of his armor (dressed in a clean shirt and jeans and looking less scruffy). He helped the brave children into the suit, commanding the computerized armor to close and hover in a small circle before touching down and letting the next kid have a turn. "Have you seen Carol?"

"Nope" — Natasha looked at Pepper — "did you put something in Tony's coffee?" Pepper frowned. "He was acting like he was high when I ran into him earlier this morning."

"No" — Pepper's frown deepened — "JARVIS scan Tony for any drugs. Also tell Carol to get her ass down here."

"Mr. Stark doesn't have any substances in his system and Colonel Danvers has told me to inform you that she is to not be disturbed," JARVIS said. Pepper sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Natasha shifted her weight to her other foot, watching the children as they shifted from Avenger to Avenger, asking questions and getting autographs. Pepper talked at her, but she wasn't listening. Call it paranoia or habit, but she scanned the room, looking for anyone suspicious. Not all the groups of a kids had a parent but for the most part the children seemed too enthralled with meeting their heroes to go wandering off. All expect one, and it was this one that caught Natasha's eye. Muttering an excuse to Pepper she slipped away, tailing the kid with the Captain America backpack.

The shrieks and inane chattered faded as they rounded a corner. Natasha cleared her throat. "You know, you aren't supposed to be here kid." She folded her arms over her chest as the kid — a young girl — jumped and turned around. The girl looked to be a little bit older than a sixth grader, maybe a seventh grader.

"Wow," the girl said breathless, her brown eyes wide. She pushed her bangs away, and tugged at her white and purple jacket with a yellow lightning bolt across her chest. "Wow… I can't… I can't believe — well, I mean I _can_ but I never _expected_ " — the girl cleared her throat — "Black Widow… I'm a huge fan. I mean — Captain Marvel is my number one favorite Avenger, but you're definitely up there in the top five. Right after Captain America or Iron Man."

Natasha arched a brow. "So I'm number four." The girl blushed and amused smile spread across her face. "That's okay," she said, "but between you and me, you're wasting your adoration on the likes of Tony Stark."

The girl's jaw dropped. "But Tony Stark _is_ Iron Man! He's so smart."

Natasha laughed. "Smoke and mirrors, kid. Tony likes to _think_ he's smart — and he is, don't get me wrong, he's smart — but he's also an idiot. He's more of a checkers guy than chess" — she winked — "if you know what I mean."

The girl nodded, shifting her backpack around and pulled out a small book with a puffy pink cover with Mickey and Minnie Mouse on it. "Sorry." The girl looked embarrassed at the book as she retrieved a pen. "My dad got it for me when we went to Disneyland when I was ten. There's a lot of pages left so I thought I'd bring it and get autographs…" she trailed off.

"It's fine," Natasha said as she took the book and pen, flipping to a blanket page. "Who should I make it out to?" Nobody had ever wanted her autograph before. She felt special and a little insecure, hoping she lived up to this girl's expectations of her. The kid had a too earnest look in her eyes.

"Kamala Khan — err — just Kamala," she said. Natasha smiled, scribbling out a nice message to the girl. "So is uh… Captain Marvel around?" Kamala fiddled with her fingers. "I'd really love to meet her."

She arched her brow as she finished drawing her hourglass symbol. Sticking the pen against the spine of the book, she snapped it close and held it out to Kamala. The girl reached for it but she snatched it back. "First off" — she couldn't help the smirk when Kamala pouted — "Captain Grumpypants is indisposed at the moment" — Kamala reached for the autograph book again but she held it higher — "how did you get in" — the words failed her as the girl before her _stretched_ her arm and retrieved her book — "here."

Kamala blushed, looking at her feet. "S-Sorry." She clutched the autograph book close to her chest. "I'm apart of the class, I'm sure if you ask the teacher she'll know me." A sheepish shifty smile spread across her lips. "I mean… if she can remember my name. She wants to call me Karla or something like that" — a forced laughed — "Kamala's not that hard to say, is it?"

Natasha arched a brow, hands on her hips. "You're bold," she said, "trying to lie to me." Kamala scuffed her foot against the floor. "Not a lot of people have the guts to do that."

"I'm not lying." The girl's gaze shifted to the left for a split second. "Honest. I'm apart of the class and it's our Avengers field trip."

"Everything okay here?" Steve asked, walking up to them. "Why aren't you with the others?" he looked at Kamala. The girl's face lit up, her grip on her autograph book white knuckled. Steve arched a brow. "Is she okay?"

"You're one of her top five favorite Avengers," Natasha said, an amused tone in her voice, "two or three, depending on where she wants Tony to fall." Steve chuckled.

"Okay," Kamala said, the word coming out in an excited huff. "I'm not apart of the class. I'm just a weird kid from Jersey and well… I was doing some volunteer work here — my mosque was partnering with one of the mosques in Manhattan for a big food drive and I — anyway, I knew this was happening so I snuck off and just sorta slipped in with the class and — I'm sorry."

Well, that was an interesting tale. An amusing one. Natasha liked her. The girl had spunk and guts and already had a drive to do good in her community. "So you're not a student?" Steve looked conflicted. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"Kinda…" Kamala had the decency to looked ashamed. "I told them I was helping with the food drive — which is totally a hundred percent real by the way — and I wouldn't be home until later tonight." She held out her book to Steve. "Can I get your autograph though? Before you kick me out?"

Natasha bit her cheek. Steve had the cutest befuddled look on his face as he accepted the book and wrote his name. "We're still gonna… what _are_ we gonna do?" he looked at her as he handed Kamala back her book. "She's not apart of the class and her parents don't exactly know she's here so… do you have the number to the mosque you were volunteering at?"

"I uh… never actually… made it," she said. Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please, I'm sorry. It's just that… you guys never come to Jersey City and I'm this weirdo and it doesn't help that I have these new stretchy powers and—"

"Wait" — Steve looked at her — "you have powers? You're enhanced?" The color faded from his cheeks as he looked over his shoulder at the other kids. Pepper was herding the class towards the elevator, as the trip was almost over and the gift shop (because _of course_ Tony Stark had a gift shop of Avengers merchandise in the tower) was down stairs. "How?" the question came off harsh, demanding.

"Steve," she chided, "be nice. She's a kid."

"I don't know," Kamala said, "I took some fish oil before going to bed one night. I had this weird dream where you, Captain Marvel and Iron Man came and Captain Marvel told me I was about to get a major life reboot and the next thing I knew I was crawling out of this…. irunno — cocoon and I was covered in slime and I could stretch and shrink and change my shape. I even heal faster than normal. It's totally weird, but also totally cool."

"Excuse us, Kamala," Natasha said, and waved Bruce over. The scientist sighed, walking over to them. "Bruce, why don't you take Kamala to the kitchen and get her some lunch. Steve and I are gonna discuss something and change into our civvies."

"You're Bruce Banner!" Kamala held out her autograph book. "Can I get your autograph and a picture? My friend Bruno thinks your amazing. Gosh, he's gonna be so _jealous_ that I got to meet you."

"Uh" — Bruce looked taken aback — "thank you?" He took her book and signed it. "This way, you like chicken sandwiches?"

"Got gyros?" Kamala asked as Bruce lead her towards the kitchen. Natasha took Steve by the arm and headed towards the elevator.

"Actually, Nat I came over to talk to you," Steve said as she pressed the button for the elevator. She hummed, giving him a quizzical glance. "I'm gonna take a nap. I'm not feeling too hot and those kids wore me out" — he chuckled — "best birth control method, a room full of kids."

"You're not feeling well?" the elevator's rumbled open with an announcing ding. She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, then his throat. "Are you sick?" It was a stupid question. Steve couldn't get sick. He shook his head, pulling her hand away from his neck.

"Nah. Just exhausted." He kissed her brow before stepping into the elevator. "Nothing to worry about."

That's the thing, she though as she stepped in after him, it does worry me.

* * *

The sterile landscape of the hospital had become his world in the last seven months. Pain a constant companion. Doctors in fluffy sterile gowns, sponging his ruined skin or applying maggots to eat the necrotic tissue, came and went throughout his time in the hospital. Rumlow could hear the pitying whispers of the nurses, the concern hisses of the doctors as they discussed how best to graft the new skin onto his ruined body. This was the price he paid for trying to bring about a better world, to help Hydra achieve its utopic goals. A building dropping on his head. The had to be some irony in there somewhere — at least he hoped. He hoped that somewhere, somebody was calling him a hero. Not like how his commanding officer called him a cruel bully and made sure he was processed out of the Army with a dishonorable discharge — thank god Peirce looked passed that and overruled Fury's decision — or how even his mobster uncle said that his methods were too cruel and extreme for the family.

Hydra had given him a purpose. Leading the Strike team had channeled his power into something useful. Making the world a better place, a freer place. Still, he saw how the Winter Soldier fought — a cold calculating killing machine — and admired Peirce even more for slapping the mongrel. Balls of steel that man, balls of fucking steel. Now Peirce was dead, Hydra scattered and ruined, and he was stuck in a damn hospital bed with bandages covering most of his left side. O, how the heroic have fallen.

"Well don't you look peachy keen," a red haired woman said. Rumlow cracked a lopsided smile as she walked over and set a little teddy bear dressed as a doctor on his side table. "Good to see you're awake."

"About time you came and visited Sin," he said, reaching for her with his good hand. She stepped closer, letting him take her hand. "Missed you." He squeezed her hand. Sinthea smiled, pulled up a chair to sit down next to him. "So fucking good to see you."

"You know I did visit you," she said, pulling out a stick of gum from her clutch and slipping it into her mouth. "They had to knock you out for the first few months because of the burns. They made a fuss about me visiting, but" — she gave him a cruelly coy smile and a half shrug — "I reminded them who pays the bills." A frown creased her blood red lips. "Pity about Peirce. I liked him."

"At least you'll be able to assume the mantle your great-grandfather left you," he said, reaching for the juice box from his lunch. Sinthea handed it to him. It was orange juice, the cheap kind, he got pulp every other sip and the citrus acid was too sharp. "He'd be proud."

Sinthea let out a bark of a laugh, as she set the juice box back on the side table. "Johann Schmidt was a misogynistic pig. To learn that the heir to his line — his legacy — is a woman" — she shook her head — "he'd be enraged. Small wonder Hitler kept him at arm's length after he injected the serum."

"Great man though, both of them," he said, as he watched the tv. No sound came from the tv, instead subtitles flashed across the bottom of the screen. He remembered watching coverage of some even at the Plaza Hotel a few weeks ago, gnashing his teeth when he saw Rogers and Romanoff walking down the red carpet arm in arm — both hale and hearty as if they didn't have a care in the world. With Shield gone, both had reverted to their Avenger duties full time. Still, Rumlow wanted to wrap his hands around Romanoff's pretty neck and squeeze until her lips turned blue. Probably make Rogers watch for good measure — he didn't find it surprising that they were a couple; Rogers never could keep his eyes off her ass — before blowing Rogers up. Being stuck in a hospital bed gave him plenty of time to plot revenge against the two people that ruined his life, that ruined Hydra's grand plans.

The news anchor talked about how clean up from the Project: Insight terror attack — that made him sneer in disgust — was still underway. Most of the clean up was being funded by Stark Industries. "Misguided fools," another woman said. He turned his gaze to the newcomer as Sinthea popped her gum loudly. The woman closed the door, two burly men in black clothes stood on either side of the door frame. Rumlow sized them up: hired guns, ex military — probably special ops. Before the building fell on him, he could've easily taken them. Now… now he didn't think he could beat a child in an arm wrestle. "What happened that day was a tragedy."

Sinthea found her tongue first. "Who are you?" she asked, standing up, gripping the thick plastic rail of his hospital bed. "And how did you get in here?" She eyed the two men at the door.

The woman smiled, adjusting her cream colored blouse and skirt. "I must say, I wasn't expecting the great-granddaughter of the Red Skull to be here" — she held out her hand to Sinthea — "I can't express what an honor it is to meet you. The legacy you inherited, simply amazing. Your great-grandfather was ahead of his time, a man with an eye to the future."

Sinthea arched a brow. "Charmed." She folded her arms over her chest. "Who are you and what do you want?"

Rumlow noticed the vexed expression on the woman as she lowered her hand. Clearly, she wasn't used to being rebuffed in anyway. "Stephanie Malick," she said, "my father's currently rebuilding Hydra."

"And what? You want my blessing or something?" Sinthea asked, her tone scathing. Stephanie laughed. A fake high pitched sound, her smile never reaching her eyes. Rumlow racked his brain. The name Malick sounded familiar, he must've heard it somewhere. Probably in passing or a hastily ended conversation. While Peirce trusted him and deferred to him in many aspects, he still wasn't in the man's inner circle. The inner most workings of Hydra still alluded him. "Just because I'm a Schmidt doesn't mean shit" — she gestured to her body — "kinda got handed the inferior sex."

"That was a bit of shortsightedness on the Red Skull's part," Stephanie said, coming to stand closer to Sinthea. "He failed to see the value of a woman's input on such matters." Her smile was venomously beatific. "Don't you agree?" Sinthea didn't say anything. "Anyway, we can discuss the matter later."

"Why are you here Ms. Malick?" he asked, guessing the pissing contest between Sinthea and Stephanie was at a stalemate for the time being. "Here to offer your condolences to my good looks?" he tried to crack a smile, only succeeding in irritating his healing skin.

"No," she said, "I'm here to offer you a job."

"Okay, but I'm kinda out of commission for the foreseeable future. Rehab for my hand, more skin grafts, the works. Hit me up next year and I'll be more than willing to do whatever you want," he said.

"You fail to remember that Hydra has considerable resources Mr. Rumlow. Dr. Sidney Frost has made considerable advances in regenerating damaged tissue. You're a prime candidate for one of her — shall we say — more experimental procedures."

"What are you saying?" Sinthea asked. "That you can fix his face?"

"I'm hurt sweetheart," he said. "Thought you liked the new look Captain America gave me." Sinthea chuckled, tracing his cheekbone with her finger. Knowing she visited him while he was sleeping away the worse of it made everything seem a little bit better. She truly was a godsend and was glad he met her.

"I do. Always did admire a man with scars."

"Unfortunately, you'll need a highly skilled plastic surgeon to repair your face to any semblance of what it was like before or invest in a nano mask," Stephanie said. "What I'm offering is halving your recovery time, maybe even more so — depending on Dr. Frost's work" — a cruel smile twisted her lips — "and a chance for revenge."

That caught his attention. Grunting, he sat up straighter. It took a lot out of him, the bandages around his chest tight as he struggled to get air into his damaged lungs. Smoke inhalation, along with the dust from the rubble, had done considerable damage. Sinthea handed him his juice box and he took several long swallows, finishing the tiny container off. He held Stephanie's gaze, cruel delight sparking in his eyes. "I'm all ears lady."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> I like this chapter. 
> 
> If you don't review puppies are gonna get hurt. And you don't want that on your conscience do you? 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	20. Interlude — Fortress of Serpents

One would think Pietro would have gotten used to the sound of tortured screams after all the years he spent hearing them. The sound had been his first lullaby, the first hymn to some blasphemous dark god, the melody of his childhood twisting around the harmony of pain and fear. Yet, despite all the years listening to pain filled screams, he would never get used to hearing them come from his sister.

Helpless, he had no choice but to watch as the men tortured Wanda, red tendrils of magic squirming around her in a crimson halo, reality shifting and contorting, imagines from realms beyond mortal ken blinking in and out of existence. She screamed for him, asking him to make it stop — her pain lancing his brain. The men kept him locked up in his cell, sedated (mostly) so he wouldn't try and escape to help her. Failure tasted bitter on his tongue. What type of brother lets men torture his sister? When they escaped from Wundagore Mountain as children, he had promised Wanda that they'd be safe. That the experiments Dr. Wyndham had conducted on them — especially her — would never happen again. The gypsy family that had taken them in after their escape were people, loving them as their own children. Then Sokovian Civil War came, taking their new found family with them. In the rubble, holding onto Wanda tight — to sooth her and to keep her fits at bay — he watched as the dud warhead sat there, the name _Stark_ emblazon in white pain on the side. A grim reminder that they never had a childhood; every shift he was sure would be their last.

Finding Shield had — like any secret — been through word of mouth. A hedge witch there, a tarot reader here, all whispering the same thing. Shield could help Wanda. Shield would find a way to cure her fits and exorcise whatever demon possessed her (it was the only logical conclusion he could draw for why she could bend and twist reality to her will). Dr. von Strucker had been kind — at first — but Pietro soon realized the man only cared about what he remembered from his time in the mountain. What Dr. Wyndham had done to him and Wanda. After a year, when von Strucker brought out the alien golden scepter, did he realize that maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe this wasn't Shield. Maybe they couldn't help Wanda.

The screaming stopped. The fortress silent as a grave. Cold seeped into his bones, a shiver prickled along his skin and Pietro wondered if it was still daylight. Would he ever see the blue sky again, would he ever managed to get help for Wanda. Groaning, he forced his eyes open. The sedative never lasted long. He didn't think von Strucker or his men realized this and through the years he's gotten good at faking the limp pliant state of being drugged. Exhaling slowly, he watched as the men dragged Wanda into her cell, dropping her onto the cold stone floor. They muttered to themselves in a harsh guttural language — German if he had to guess — and the heavy door closed with a squeaky bang.

Casting off his bonds, Pietro crawled to the wall and found the loose brick, prying it free. "Wanda," he whispered, sticking his hand through, "Wanda, sister." He waited, heart pounding in his throat. "Wanda."

A soft groan came from the other side and her hand grasped his. "Pietro," she whispered and he could barely see her through the small gap in the wall. "Am I bleeding?" she asked. "I taste blood."

He gave her hand a squeeze before pulling away and looking at her through the gap. Blood oozed from her eyes and nose and the corner of her mouth, the white of one eye was red. "A little," he said. Wanda sighed, resting her head against the wall. "It's going to be okay, Wanda." His sister didn't say anything. "I promise," he continued, "we'll get out of here. We'll find someone to help—"

"Who can help me, Pietro?" Wanda snapped, her voice thick. "I hear the thoughts of men. I can move things with my mind. Wrap reality" — a heavy sigh — "No. I'm a monster. Nobody can help me. And even if they did, they'd just want to use me as a weapon."

Pietro sighed, reaching his hand through the gap. A smile spread across his lips when Wanda took his hand. "We'll find someone, Wanda," he said, "we will. I promise. There's someone out there that will help us. Help you control your fits and your gifts—"

"Gifts?" she scoffed. "More like curses." A soft whimper escaped her. "Maybe that's why our mother gave us up when we were babies. A sacrifice to God. We're cursed Pietro."

He snorted. "I don't believe that Wanda. And neither should you. We'll find someone to help. As soon as I figure a way to get us out of here. I'll take care of you" — he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb — "I'll always protect you."

"Thank you," she said, "quick, replace the stone. Someone comes." He pulled his hand from hers, slipping the stone back in and leaning against the glass watching. More of von Strucker's men, muttering in their harsh language over papers, pointing towards him and Wanda. Pietro sighed, grit and determination in his gaze. While his speed would be a temperary advantage, it would not benefit them in the long run. What they needed was a distraction. What type of distraction, he couldn't say. All he could do was sit and wait — he hated both, but gotten good at them — until the perfect opportunity came along.

Until then, Pietro would wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An appetizer to tide you guys over until I get the next chapter finished. It's being difficult and I don't think I'd have it done before the month is out. 
> 
> This one introduces the Maximoff Twins which will set up AoU, which will be the final third of this story. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience.


	21. The Burden of Atlas

The squeaky faucet sounded louder than it should in the small bathroom; the silence thicker than the steam. An ache that penetrated the marrow of his bones held fast to every fiber of his being and it felt like such a chore getting out of the warm shower. Steam billowed around him as he wrapped a towel around his waist and wiped the mirror clear of mist. The man staring back at him was one he didn't recognize.

When he first saw his reflection after Project: Rebirth, he had trouble comprehending his new face: fuller cheeks, a healthy sheen to his skin, a clearness of his eyes. Still, his nose was a bit off center, the scar a faint white dash on the side of his nose. Now, his reflection revealed a man tired of living, of dealing with the world. Dark bags settled beneath his eyes. Irises once a clear glacial blue, now appeared dull and lifeless. Lips drooping into an immortal frown. Steve ran a hand through his damp hair and tugged his lower eye lids down, noting the bright blood vessels in his sclera; he resisted the urge to rub the itchy dryness from his eyes. He brushed his teeth, baring them to the mirror before pulling on a fresh pair of boxers and hanging up the towel.

The suite was silent and spartan. His paintings and art supplies long since clean and stowed in his closet, abandoned and forgotten. The bright lights of the city streaming through the window, creating an illusion of thick shadows around his bed. He checked his watch — a gift from Natasha — it was only four-thirty. He forgot how quickly it got dark during the winter. Plodding to the bed, he flopped down with a tired groan, closing his eyes with sleep slipping like water through his fingers. Steve grabbed his pillow, glaring at the wall and trying to find a state of calm that would allow him to relax and drift off to sleep. On the nightstand stood pictures of Peggy and the Commandos, the Avengers and his compass. A new one had joined the small collection: one of Natasha in front of the Washington Monument.

A rare day off during the summer of 2013, when she had taken him by the hand and lead him around the National Mall, enjoying the sunshine and the sticky warmth. They even went through the Captain America exhibit. Whenever he walked through the exhibit, it felt like an out of body experience, seeing his life — what was only a few years ago to him — on display to strangers to gawk at like the treasures of the Valley of the Kings. That evening, as the museum was closing, Natasha dragged him back and he gave her a private tour, reminiscing about the life he led, indulging her curiosity with anecdotes that weren't on the plaques. She smiled blithely at the elderly night guard.

That felt like a life time ago. Steve frowned. It bothered him that so much of his life was sectioned off into a before and after this event: His mother dying, Project Rebirth, going into the ice, the fall of Shield. "Steve?" Natasha called. He didn't answer, he didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to be left alone, to wander the serpentine paths of his mind, getting lost in the rabbit holes of what ifs and shoulda-coulda-wouldas. Wallow in self pity. "Steve?"

"In here," he called, giving in, like a sailor to the siren's hypnotic song. It took only a few moments for the bed to dip, her slender body molding against her muscular one. "Hey." He wrapped an arm around her, threading his hand through her silky soft hair. The tension left his body bit by bit.

"You smell nice," she said, nuzzling her nose along his pec. "Like a forest." He chuckled. "What? I like it."

"At least I don't smell like how I feel." He shifted, to face her, noting her casual dress: yoga pants with leg warmers and fuzzy socks. "Was that my sweatshirt?" he plucked at the baggy sweatshirt, ARMY in black lettering stamped across her chest. Natasha shrugged, lifting the collar over her nose and inhaling deeply, a challenge in her eyes. "Looks good on you."

"Thanks." A shy girlish smile graced her lips and for a moment he saw a glimpse of the girl she never got to be. "I thought you slipped and broke a hip" — she patted his thigh — "'fraid I'd have to sign you up for LifeAlert."

"What?" His brow furrowed. Natasha snickered, kissing his cheek.

"LifeAlert. You know, those commercials with the old people that fall and they are over dramatic when they say 'help! I've fallen and can't get up' and the narrator gives the grim prediction that many falls result in elder death."

"Oh."

"I'm looking out for you," she said, "you're an old man after all." She patted his hip. "Don't want you to break a bone at your age." Her fingers danced along his hipbone, teasing little touches light as snowflakes and warm as embers. Warmth spread throughout his limbs and the heaviness of sleep weighed his eyelids down. A frown creased his lips when her fingers stopped mesmerizing dance. "Is this a scar?" she traced the white ropey spider web on his hip.

"Mm?" he shifted, peeking down at it. "Oh, yeah." He shifted, getting comfortable again and burying his nose into her hair. "Only scar I got after the serum."

"Oh?"

"Bullet ricochet," he said, remembering the searing pain in his hip as he fought Red Skull's goons, the trickle of warm blood. The bullet didn't go in too deep, and he was able to dig it out with his finger before he lost consciousness. The sting of the salt water almost brought him back to life, but the cold dragged him down into its dark timeless depths. "Healed while I was in the ice." He tapped his nose. "Got another one here. Socked in the face when I was ten. Broke my nose. Mam scolded me somethin' good for getting into a brawl. Would've won if the kid hadn't punched me in the face."

"You?" Natasha cocked a brow. "Win a fight back then."

"Hey" — he poked her in the side — "I was small and scrappy." A mischievous grin spread across his face. "Bucky saved me."

"Oh." A distant look flickered across her face, lingering only for half a heartbeat — too quickly that he wasn't even sure it had happened. "Now I know why you snore."

He scoffed. "I don't snore."

"Yes, you do." She smirked. "It's this little whistling sound, a bit on the reedy side. I find it cute."

He chuckled, hiding his face in her hair. Mint and cucumber surrounded him, reminding him of simpler times: lazy Sundays drawing whatever caught his fancy with Sinatra crooning in the background, leaves changing color and drifting down with mugs of apple cider to warm cold hands, the crisp scent of spring that brought some of that sticky heat to chase away the humid chill of winter, his mother's soft voice threading her fingers through his hair as she told him stories of Ireland, of fairies and dragons, princes and princesses. "You snore too," he said, holding her tight. "It's a cute little tweet. Reminds me of birds in the spring." She elbowed him and he grunted, but refused to let her go. "Tit for tat, Romanoff."

She muttered something in Russian before pushing her weight behind her shoulder and rolling him onto his back to straddle his hips. The look of pride in her eyes sent warmth towards his groin. Truth be told, if he wanted to, he could have prevented her from doing this. "You play dangerous game Captain," she said in a throaty sultry — and thickly accented — tone, as she traced a finger over his lips and down his throat, settling at his jugular notch.

"Maybe" — he yawned — "maybe I like living dangerously?" his voice thick with sleep. Natasha laughed, resting her head on his chest. "Sorry," he mumbled, "broke the spell."

"S'okay," she said, lacing her fingers with his. "You need to sleep." He nuzzled her cheek, pressing a kiss at the end.

"Stay with me?" he asked.

"Agent Romanoff, Miss Khan is asking for you," JARVIS said. Natasha huffed.

"Tell her to give me ten minutes, I'll be there." She slid off him, curling into his side and starting running her hand through his hair. "Do you want me to sing to you?" she asked, running her thumb down his down.

"No." He shook his head. "Tell me a story," he said, "a Russian story."

"We didn't have stories in the Red Room," she said, and hummed thoughtfully, nails lightly scratching his scalp. A soft purr rumbled in his throat, eyes drooping. "It was just after my mission with Stark ended. Clint had this boneheaded idea for a prank war. Everyone went along with it. Good natured fun and we all had a laugh at each other's expense."

"Is this even a Russian story?" he asked, cracking an eye open. Natasha tsked.

"I'm Russian. Do you want me to tell you it with a thick Russian accent?" She tapped his nose; he chuckled. "Now hush lyubimiy." She shifted against him. "As I was saying, it was all good fun. Everyone partook in it — except Sitwell, but he had always been a killjoy. Anyways, Clint decided to do something daring — pull the ultimate prank if you will. He decided to steal Fury's eyepatch and trench coat to impersonate him — _badly_. He had said: What's funnier than playing a prank on any S.O.? Playing a prank on Fury" — Natasha sighed wistfully — "sometimes I think Clint has a masochistic streak."

"How… why did Laura even marry him and give him not one, but three children?"

She shrugged. "One of life's great mysteries, I guess. Now shut it. Clint plotted it meticulously, sneaking through the vent — I don't know how he managed, but he grew up in a circus, maybe he's more flexible than he looks — entering Fury's quarters without tripping the alarms and not waking Fury. Clint swiped the coat and eyepatch, put a smiley face sticker over Fury's eye as a place holder and slipped out without disturbing Fury, the alarms, or even Goose."

"Wait? Goose? Fury had Goose?"

"Yep," she said, "Fury cat-sat both Chewie and Goose while Carol was away" — a thoughtful frown creased her lips — "ironically, Fury is the only one Carol trusts to cat-sit them" — she waved her hand dismissively — "Clint paraded around the hellicarrier blustering like Fury for about an hour maybe two. Had everyone in stitches — even me, I have the video of Clint's impersonation, so I can show it to you later. I emailed it to JARVIS and threatened his circuits if he clued Tony in on it's existence. So this was going on for about two hours now, when Fury comes out of his quarters, which caused more laugher because he looked ridiculous with that smiley face sticker on his eye. Hill wet herself cause she laughed so hard, Coulson had hiccups for a half hour afterwards — Fury canceled their leave as a result. Finally, he finds Clint, angrier than hell, but it doesn't work because of the sticker on his face."

"What happened to Clint?"

"Oh nothing. Fury tied a rope around his ankles and pushed him off the helicarrier. Left him dangling there for a while, and ordered the galley staff to bring him all the pizza bagels and tossed them overboard. I'll admit that it was hilarious to hear Clint screaming for the pizza bagels. Apparently, he soiled himself too."

"And you?" Steve mumbled, sleepy.

"I escaped," she said, "until Fury figured out I was Clint's accomplice. I helped disable the alarms and may or may not have slipped a sedative into Fury's coffee. Fury tossed me into the brig for two days and cancelled my leave" — a sardonic smirk curled on her lips — "which is funny because he ordered me to take two weeks leave to begin with because I accumulated to much and was gonna lose the extra days if I didn't."

He sighed, relaxed enough that sleep crept over him like a gentle blanket. "Thanks," he said, "that was a funny story. Next time I want a Russian fairytale."

She kissed his cheek as she slipped from his embrace; he was reluctant to let her go. "Be more specific next time Rogers." Her hips swayed as she walked towards the door. "Besides, Russian fairytales are so grim and dark, someone usually dies at the end or gets eaten by a wolf."

The door sighed close, the buzz of electrical equipment a pleasant white noise that tucked in the edges of sleep. Steve shifted, pulling the scratchy wool blanket up to his chin, Natasha's scent lingering on the pillows.

* * *

It felt cliché. Sitting in the dark, with a small metal trash can between her ankles, burning pictures of a life long dead — a time when unicorns and pots of gold at rainbow's end were real, true love and happily ever after didn't belong in fairy tales. Yet, that's how Carol found herself, with disappointment gnawing at her inners, Kamala's hero-worshipping grin flashing in her memory. It felt nigh impossible to keep the façade in place, act as if her life wasn't unraveling at the seams in front of the young girl. The picture curled as the flames gobbled the chemical coated image, faces of her mother and brothers and father melting as she dropped it into the trash can along with the rest. Fire — the cleansing element — unable to burn away the sins of her past. The lies her parents told her. She trusted them, but she should have known better. Trust shifted and crumbled like sand. Terrible foundation for any relationship.

She plucked another one from the stack besides her. A young girl she barely recognized held a first place ribbon and a model of a B-17 Flying Fortress in the other. Her mother proud and smiling, while her father glared grimly at the camera. Lies. Lies immortalized in film. Carol pinched the image of her face and her fingertips glowed, a heartbeat later the picture burst into flames, briefly illuminating the tears on her cheeks. Chewie and Goose watched her from their cat tree, if they sense a shift in her mood they didn't show it. This felt worse than learning that the Kree lied to her. Did they know she was a Kree-Human hybrid? It shouldn't have been such a surprise to her that her mother was Kree. The Kree had never been honest with her. Lying about her powers, their mission, her heritage. Lies, lies, and more lies; the only thing she ever got from the Kree.

A knock sound throughout the suite. Three imposing booms, their echoes lingering like unwelcomed mourners at a wake. Carol flipped the photo album close and answered the door. Thor stood there, a strange look in his blue eyes and one arm behind his back. A queer scent wafted around him: pines and loamy moss, the sharp tang of metal and that distinct ozone spark of what she could only describe as Asgardian magic. "Carol." Thor stepped into her suite, making it feel smaller than what it actually was. The divinely regal presence of coming face to face with a god. She had seen many otherworldly things while a member of the Kree Star Force and when she helped Talos and his Skrulls seek a new world to call home: octopuslike creatures on water worlds, gelatinous slugs on worlds of rock and geysers of acid, humanoid creatures from small rocky worlds not dissimilar to Earth or Hala. Yet none compared to Thor: power radiated from his very being, an aura she could only attribute to divinity and being born of Æser royalty. The rippling crack of electricity sparking just beneath his skin and in the depths of his eyes, never failed to make her pulse quicken and her mouth dry. The thrill that arose in her reminded her of when she stood on outside, watching the sky darken in the distance and the wind whip her hair as Hurricane Gloria approached Boston. A part of her wanted to fly out and meet the powerful storm, tame it and bring it to heel. The petrichor thick in the air and the distant rumble of lighting and thunder echoing over the landscape, setting the hairs on her nape and arms on end.

"What brings you by?" she asked, as Thor shut the door behind him. She tucked her hands beneath her armpits, trying to appear less miserable than she felt. Thor cleared his throat, looking around the dark suite, before thrusting out his hand to her. Clutched in his meaty fist was a brilliant flower: a stem of the deepest brightest viridian, petals of iridescent red and looking softer than any velvet. Vines coiled around his wrist and Thor plucked them with as much care as one would swat a fly. Carol arched her brow.

"For you," he said, offering her the flower. "I was on Vanaheim, and while I was adventuring through the mystical sylvan places of that fair realm I happened across this flower and" — he swallowed, looking bashful — "it reminded me of you. So I plucked it and brought it here."

Carol's eyes grew wide and her heart swelled. "Thank you," she said, taking the exotic alien flower from him. The vine coiled around her wrist. She winced as it pricked her skin. The flower was even more beautiful up close and oozed a strange power, almost like it had a consciousness of its own. The stem was pleasant and waxy smooth, the petals softer than anything she felt before. Smiling, Carol brought it to her face to inhale it's intoxicating scent when the petals opened like a robotic iris and a long fanged tongue leapt out, snapping at her nose. "Shit!" Reflex took over, her fist glowing supernova bright and turning the flower to ash. She dusted her hands, feeling guilty at killing Thor's gift. "I'm sorry," she said, looking up at him. His dejected expression felt like a knife twisting deep into her heart.

Ever since Thanksgiving, their relationship had been strained. And it wasn't due to him. He tried. He tried to get her to confine in him, and repeatedly said he would listen — hell he even offered to take her to Asgard to talk to Loki if she wanted someone to understand what she was feeling. In the end, he had left her alone, heading to the stars along the Bifröst, only returning for this event. Thor looked at the ashes and sighed, kicking them with his foot. "Don't bother. I should have known it was a fanged rose." He grinned. "Alas, I'm not very good with herbs and flowers."

"It's fine." She walked towards the dark kitchenette. Chewie thrilling a greeting to Thor as she slinked out of Carol's room, fluffy tail held high. She grabbed a glass, pouring herself some water she didn't drink. "It's the thought that counts." She drummed her fingers against the glass. "It was a pretty flower. I liked it. Considering one of my cats is a Flerken, I should be used to all sorts of things with fanged tentacles jumping out at me." She chuckled. "We should get another one and sneak it into Tony's room."

"You sound like Romanoff now," Thor said as he followed her into the kitchenette. He scooped up Chewie, large hand stroking the cat's silky fur. "I'm worried about you Carol. You haven't spoken to me since we visited your mother's and I've been told that during the Yule season on Midgard family and friends gather and are much closer than other times of the year. Plus you didn't show up for the festival with the children."

Carol hung her head. "I'm fine." She ignored Thor's frown. "I just have a lot on my mind and I'm not good at talking about my feelings. I prefer to work out my issues with my fists."

"Then we can spar." Thor set Chewie on the counter, the cat walked over to the glass and stuck her nose in it, then looked up at Carol. "I will have Tony's robot friend reinforce the gym and we can go at it or I can take you to Svartalfheim and we can have a proper bought there without worrying about destruction." He stroked his beard, frowning. "The dwarves may actually benefit from it. Our clash will unearth new veins of metal and gems, make it easier for them to mind."

Tears pricked her eyes. "Thank you," she said. I don't deserve this, she thought, as Thor closed the gap between them and wrapped her up in his strong arms. He smelled of leather and earth, rain and lightning. Carol bit her lip, clinging to him and trying not to cry. Reluctantly, she pulled away. "I'll be fine," she said. A great weight seemed to settle on Thor's shoulders, his normally optimistic smile fell, the hope left his eyes replaced with helpless frustration.

"Very well," he said, lifting his chin and taking a step back. "I just…" he shook his head. "Before I met you, I…" he stopped again. He gave Chewie another pat and left her suite. Carol swallowed, the suite feeling smaller and colder without Thor, as if him leave was akin to be bereft of the sun's golden rays. With a cry she shot a photon blast at the glass of water, shattering it and turning the water into steam. Chewie hissed, pulling her ears back before jumping off the counter and running to the safety of Carol's room. Tears stung her eyes, a choked sob escaped her throat and she crumpled to the floor, screaming out the pain she felt. A vast emptiness settled into her core. Something she hadn't felt since Mar-Vell's death. A sharp hot pain like a knife through her heart. Mar-Vell was the only man she truly loved — or so she told herself, until Thor. Yet, she had pushed him away after learning her true parentage and their relationship had felt different ever since. _She_ felt different, soiled in a way, knowing she was a Kree-Human hybrid. Unworthy of Thor's love and affection, Natasha's friendship.

Goose trilled, trotting over to her with his tail held high, topaz eyes bright in the darkness. "Hey Goosey-Loosey," she said, running her hand along the alien's back. Goose purred, arching into her touch before sitting on his haunches. Globs of drool formed at the corners of his mouth, a coiling purple tentacle slipped out and he hacked up a viscous glob of slime, in the heart was the necklace she worn to the gala, the one Thor got her. "Really Goose?" she asked as she picked up the necklace and wiped it clean on her shirt. "Do you just eat everything?" Goose meowed, head butting her elbow. The central jewel gleamed in the darkness, twinkling with starlight from galaxies away. _You have won the heart of the Prince of Asgard_ , he had told her. Sighing, she stood up, setting the necklace on the counter. The gem gleamed, as if a star settled on the countertop. Mar-Vell had told her they were made of stardust just not from the same stars. Maybe Thor was the star she was meant to be with.

* * *

The hallway leading to Thor's room was dark. The LED runner lights glowed a faint pale light. She knew her way, footsteps soft on the plush carpet. Sighing, she knocked on the door. A stupid idea, she should go back to her room and crawl into bed. The way Thor spoke of love reminded her of something straight from an Arthurian legend, like how Lancelot romanced Guinevere. "Thor?" she asked. The door hissed open, Thor stood there, holding the towel around his waist, rivulets of water trickling down the grooves of his muscle defined chest. Carol licked her lips as her heart beat a rapid tattoo against her ribs and heat pooled in her gut. Taking a deep breath, she forced the blush from the cheeks and the glow from her hands. Natasha often told her how Apollonian Steve looked, but Carol couldn't help but feel smug about the fact that Thor had nothing on Steve. I definitely picked the better man, in looks anyway. "Did I — uh, catch you at a bad time?" Yes, that sounded casual and hopefully disguised the fact that she was mentally drooling over him and trying to suppress the urge to rip that towel off and see him in his full glory.

"I was merely taking a bath, but I can make time for you." He smiled. "Please, come in." He stepped aside to let her in. Carol entered, looking around the room. Golden spires gleamed in the windows, an ethereal atmosphere blanketed the space reminding her of a bygone time when life was simpler and legends walked the Earth. A high back chair sat in one corner, with a table carved from unearthly wood by it's side and an ornately carved beer stein on top. Mounted heads of dragons, ogres and trolls lined the walls. The head of the terrible dragon Nidhogg hung over the fireplace mantle; a cheery blaze crackling away. A kingly bed was tucked in another corner, covered in pelts of bears and wolves and other alien creatures from the Nine Realms. Plush pillows piled beneath the headboard and Mjölnir tucked into a little bed of it's own.

"Wow." Carol took everything in. "How… how does it look like this?" The room felt larger than the actual square footage provided.

Thor shrugged, knotting the towel about his waist. "Asgardian magic," he said. "A simple spell really. I was never good with the arcane arts — that was more Loki's talent and my mother's — but I have managed to pick up a trick or two." He opened the cupboard and pulled out another stein. "Mead?"

"No, thanks. I just…" she hugged herself. Why did she come here? Was it because she was lonely? Lost and frustrated with what she learned about her family. Was it because she wanted some comfort, another person to be near, to hold her and tell her it was okay to feel these things. The way Mar-Vell had done so long ago — warm kisses and hot pants, his hands exploring her body in a way she never before experienced, the union of two hearts, Mar-Vell confiding in her about his true identity and she realizing that she loved a man from another galaxy — "I just wanted to apologize for burning the flower."

"Oh." Thor picked up his stein and tool a long swallow. "'Tis nothing to be sorry about, Carol! Vanaheim fanged roses can be shocking upon your first encounter. Perhaps I should have plucked a rose from Midgard and present that as a token for my affection instead." A thoughtful frown furrowed his brow. "Though I hear Midgardian women are rather fond of brooches" — he beamed — "would a brooch be more to your liking? I can ask the royal jeweler on Svartalfheim to fashion you one and—"

Carol tucked some hair behind her ear. "No, no, Thor, it's fine."

"Oh." He shrugged. "If you say so."

Silence — awkward and heavy — pressed in around them like that nosy neighbor that never took the hint. She should leave. It felt wrong, using Thor as a way to sooth her own aching heart.

Thor wiped the foam from his upper lip as she closed the gap between them and acted upon the desire burning in her belly. Much to her surprise, he returned the kiss, fervently, the stein falling from his hand and landing on the chair, mead soaking into the cushion. His lips tasted honey sweet with a malty lingering that was unique to Asgard — at least she thought. A moan rumbled from him, the sound vibrating in his chest and he hoisted her up, one arm wrapping around her thighs as his other cradled her back. Carol mewled, cupping his face in her hands, running her fingers through the curly course hair of his beard as he walked them to the large bed.

Carol sunk into the goose down and horse hair mattress as Thor's hands tugged at her shirt, ripping it from her body. She arched a brow and he gave her a sheepishly apologetic look. "Don't worry," she said, "never liked it anyway." She tugged his hair free, running her fingers through golden locks, smelling of ozone and rain, and softer than the finest silk. Her feet wiggled the towel off his hips, toes digging into firm thighs.

Sparks leapt from Thor's fingers, tingling along her skin, coaxing her flesh to pimple. The heat built between her loins, the glow appearing beneath her skin, arcs of plasma leaping here and there, mini solar flares breaking free from her skin. Thor leaned back, studying the sight as he trailed a finger down her cleavage, a small blue arc of electricity wending around the plasma.

Lightning and starlight.

Carol unhooked her bra, tossing it aside (it landed on Nidhogg's mounted head) and moaned, her back arching, as Thor fondled her breasts with hands and mouth. Lightning and starlight danced along their skins, crackling and zapping the air. Thor was ravenous, peppering every inch of her skin with kisses, fingers finding her hot spots and coaxing pleasure from them. The union of storm and stars had her seeing supernovas behind her eyes. He filled her up, completing a burning need and quixotically creating an insatiable desire in her. Their hips rocked together, akin to the push and pull of ocean and moon, the pressure building between them.

Dust fell from the rafters. Carol vaguely registered the groan of steel beams beneath the crackle of lightning and roar of plasma. The faint squeak of wooden joints straining against constant rocking mingled with Thor's deep grunts and her erotic moans. She clung to him and he to her, and all she recalled was the arcs of lightning and plasma, the blinding white and the endless sea of galaxies and stars.

* * *

Warm humid air buffeted Natasha's back and clunky footsteps followed. "Ammi made you some chai," Kamala said, handing her a steaming mug of spice rich tea. The teen sat down, tucking her legs close and sipped her own tea. Natasha looked at the dark liquid, blew on it before taking a small sip. The bitterness of black tea mellowed out with the creaminess of milk, cardamom, cinnamon and gloved danced along her tongue with the sharp spicy pop of peppercorn and ginger as finishing notes. She hummed, pulling her arms and legs closer a she savored the delicious enchanting warmth.

"You have to give me the recipe," she said, "this stuff is delicious." She took another sip. "Better than whatever you get a coffee shop." Another content hum escaped her as she allowed the steam to coil about her chin. The smell teased loose memories of a half-forgotten time before the Red Room, of snow and Tchaikovsky softly playing in the background, black and white news reels detailing the war (glorious Stalin and the Soviets triumphing over Hitler and his damnable Nazis), and stories of a man with a star emblazoned shield told to her in the reedy voice of her grandmother. _Moya malen'kaya balerina._

Kamala chuckled. "That's because Ammi makes it the way her mom makes it and that was taught to her by my great-grandma. It's the real deal." Kamala took a sip. "When I was little, Ammi would make me chai before bed and when I got older whenever I had a bad day or just needed to relax, she would make me a cup of chai." She smiled. "It's like a snuggly blanket in a cup."

"Yeah," Natasha agreed. The lights of Jersey City gleamed against the inky blackness of the night, across the river she could make out the glowing skyline of Manhattan. A simplicity lingered on the streets, an unhurriedness that beckoned her to relax and sink into the comfort of good company and good food. "Tell your mom dinner was great. I don't think I've eaten that much in a long time. I should've brought Steve. He eats like a horse."

"Ammi always feels better when she's feeding one of my white friends," Kamala said. Natasha chuckled, sipping her chai. "Is… is Captain Rogers—"

"You can call him Steve," Natasha said, "he won't mind. He likes you."

Kamala blushed, giddily stomping her feet. "That's… that's amazing! Captain America _likes_ me! I don't… oh my god… I just" — a short squeal escaped her; Natasha laughed — "okay… okay… I'm cool. I'm cool." Kamala chugged her chai. "Is he okay?" she blurted out. Natasha arched a brow. "He seemed… sad about something."

Sad. Now that was the understatement of the century. The cocksure smile he gave her as he glibly told her that all the members of his barbershop quarter were dead; the way he told her he was too busy as why he hadn't asked Kristen from Statistics out and jumped out of the plane _without a parachute_. Her heart went into her throat when she saw that and she nearly scowled as Rumlow gloated about it to Rollins. If Steve hadn't been cross with her after the mission, she would have chewed him a new asshole for pulling a stunt like that. Didn't he have any care about the people who cared about him? During his time at Shield, she had witnessed him throwing his body around like he did his shield. Reckless, suicidal behavior. A sigh escaped through her nose. "You know the story right?"

"Of course! I lurk on a Captain America fan blog. I know a lot about him. Though, I do know _everything_ about Captain Marvel." Kamala's shoulders slumped. "Carol seemed mean."

Natasha squeezed the girl's shoulders. "Carol is dealing with a lot right now. She's normally a lot nicer. But I don't think she had a very good Thanksgiving at her mother's." She sipped her chai. "Anyway, back to Steve — he's having trouble adjusting to this new time period."

"Cause everyone he knew is dead?" Kamala's question came out in a whisper. "I… I was born in America but my brother wasn't and sometimes you can tell he's not _American_. Ammi and Abu are like that too, they do things and" — she shrugged — "I'm just used to it. Cause it's just my brother and parents are, their quirks."

"A little," she said as Kamala leaned against her. "Your family can go visit Pakistan, see family that are still there. Steve can't. He can't ever go back to the 1940s. Steve's isolated. Culturally and physically from everything he used to know and it's hard."

"But he has you now," she said, smiling. "So he's not alone. He smiled real big when he saw you. Kinda like Mike does when she sees Bruno." Kamala huffed, pushing a clump of hair out of her face.

"Do I hear some jealousy?" she teased.

"No," Kamala said. "I'm not jealous. Bruno and I are just friends." She looked at Natasha, a broad smile covering her face. "But I totally ship you and Steve. Captain Widow is _totally_ a thing on Twitter — though the hashtag _coldwar_ was trending for a while. ROLFCopter messaged me the night of the gala with that shot of you and Cap, he was so happy that you two finally got to together — won't stop him from writing that steamy epic Captain Carter fic he's working on" — Kamala flushed and took a big gulp of her tea — "not that have erm… _read_ it or anything, no! I don't read smut fanfics. I just _know_ about it cause ROFLCopter likes to bounce ideas off me and" — she rubbed her face — "this is embarrassing…"

Natasha chuckled. "Captain Carter?" she asked. To think that there was an entire community dedicated to Steve. People that made up stories about him and what he did with his spare time (and who he romanced as well, it seemed). It boggled her mind. The chai warmed her chilled fingers. A dog barked in someone's backyard and a car honked in the distance.

"Yeah, it's the ship name for Captain America and Agent Carter — you know who she is—"

"Yes." Natasha laughed, wrapping her arm around the young girl. "I'm very familiar with Peggy Carter." A car rumbled pass, headlights glinting off the bummers of the other cars in the driveways or parked along the curb. "Before Shield fell, people looked up to Peggy. She had this presences and you wanted to live up to her example. To make her proud" — shame chilled her heart: shame at her bloodied past, the red in her ledger… Peggy was everything Steve wanted and it galled her that this insecurity still nibbled at the back of her mind — "I don't think I've lived up to that."

"Uh… yes you have."

"What?" She couldn't hide the disbelief from her voice. "Kamala, I—"

"No, you have! You closed the portal that was letting the aliens invade New York! That alone won us the battle — well besides Iron Man flying a nuke through it, and also it was totally cool how Captain Marvel saved him at the last possible second. I mean that was freaking amazing! Plus all the other cool hero stuff she's been doing since she came to back to Earth" — a sheepish looked spread across Kamala's face — "but you, you totally saved the day. You're so cool and brave. And really nice. You're like a big sister I never had." She smiled. "I think Steve's really lucky to have you in his life. I know he is, cause I'm lucky you're in my life." Kamala beamed. "I think you might end up being my new favorite Avenger."

Natasha didn't say anything, simply set her cup down and wrapped Kamala in a hug. "You don't know how good of a heart you have, kiddo. You really don't. Thank you."

* * *

The tower loomed ahead after an uneventful drive from Jersey City. Her car smelled of exotic spices and curry. Kamala's mom definitely knew how to make a meal, plus the warm spices from the rice pudding they had for dessert. Steve hadn't answered her texts, but she knew he would indulge himself and try everything. "JARVIS is Steve awake?" she asked as she pulled into the underground parking garage, spookily empty in the post work hours. Only the gleam of Tony's fancy cars in one section of the garage indicated that someone else besides her was here.

"No, Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers is still asleep. I would caution you to watch your step as there seems to be some structural integrity issues after Colonel Danvers and Thor engaged in coitus."

Natasha sighed through her nose. "Elevator working?"

"All elevators are fully operational."

At least there was one saving grace. She collected the two bags of food from her trunk and headed to the elevator. The ride up always felt fantastical, watching the city materialize and then slowly ascend over it, watching it get smaller and smaller. Pricks of light among the shadows of night, beams of light racing across the freeway and overpasses. The nighttime view of a city had a certain magic, some sort of nostalgia that tugged at a deep part of her soul. The elevator dinged at her floor.

She could hear Steve's soft snores as soon as she entered. Thank god, she thought, he's getting some sleep. Quickly storing the good, she hopped into the shower before crawling into bed. Shivering — she needed to bring her down comforter from her room to his — she snuggled against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body seep into hers. Smiling, she brushed some hair from his brow. Steve stirred. "Hey."

"Hi sleepy head." She nuzzled his nose and shared a kiss. "Sorry to wake you." Steve grunted, pulling her close and pressed his lips against her brow.

"S'okay, dreamin' of you anyway."

Contentment settled over her, a warm peaceful feeling she never thought she'd feel. Everything became clear, what she wanted in her life — the way to wipe the red from her ledger for good. "Steve?" It took him a moment to hum sleepily. Natasha thought better of engaging him in an important conversation about the direction of her — and ultimately their — life, shook her head, pillowing it on his bicep. "Nothing, we'll talk in the morning."

* * *

During her time in Star Force she had gotten good at ignoring guilt. The pleading look in the eyes of Skrulls she killed, the other races that begged her to spare them. All fell to the might of the Kree. For six years she marched to the drum that was for the glory of all Kree, tampering down the guilt as she — along with the other members of Star Force — trampled countless civilizations and subjugated others for the Kree Empire. Yon-Rogg told her the feeling of guilt would pass and that she would come to understand the superiority of the Kree over other races. Emotions clouded judgement, got in the way of intellect and logic — emotions killed people, whether herself or her comrades, it didn't matter. The idea that emotion was a weakness had been drilled into her until she became immune to the pain and suffering of others.

Still it made her feel dirty sneaking out of Thor's room in the wee hours of the morning and plotting ways to avoid him until she worked up the nerve to talk to him. Damn the complexity of the heart. Everything felt so fucked up since her mother told her the truth. Since she realized that the blast didn't give her powers, but activated her powers and further enhanced them on a genetic level. She had spent nearly twenty years hating the Kree for what they did to her, kidnapping her from her home — only to learn she _was_ Kree. The thought still made her throw up in her mouth. Carol glanced back at the door, the smell of leather and pine still lingered on her skin and for a moment she wanted to crawl back into bed with him, fell his strength envelop her and keep her safe — the way her father never did, the way Mar-Vell failed to do. Tears constricted her throat, guilt drove her feet onward. No time to look back, only to go further. She made her bed and now she had to lie in it.

Hopefully she didn't run into anyone — it was early enough that the chances were slim — and they asked the awkward question of why she was wearing one of Thor's shirts. A sigh escaped her as she entered the elevator. "Stealing his shirts, huh?" Natasha asked. Carol flinched, turning to look at her friend, who held a giant fluffy comforter. "Half my closet is full of Steve's clothes. I put them back when they stop smelling like him." A too pleased smirk on her face.

"What's with the comforter?" Carol pointed to the bulky item in her hands. Natasha shrugged, balling the comforter up more in an effort to make it easier to carrier. Cold rarely bothered her, as she could absorb the ambient energy in the air to increase her core temperature — a trick she discovered while helping Talos and his Skrull defectors find a safe homeworld.

"It's cold in Steve's room," she said. "So… heard you and Thor caused structural damage to the Tower. Kinky." Carol flushed. "Most Steve ever did was dent the drywall or crack the headboard." A small chuckle. "Left a butt imprint in Sam's house down in DC. Told him to circle it and write: _genuine imprint of Black Widow's ass._ That it should increase the property value of the house."

Carol sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and muttering something vulgar in Kree. "It's not what you think." A desperate ploy and one full of bullshit. It was exactly what it looked like; she was sneaking away from Thor. Who could say they banged an actual god. Natasha arched a brow. "It's not!" For some reason Carol thought she could out lie a master spy.

"It's just that you had had _sex_ with a god — who've you been crushing on since the Battle of New York — and you're what? Running away." A derisive snort. "I don't get Carol, why would you want to fuck this up?"

Anger bubbled beneath her skin, she clenched her fists, keeping the glow of her hands at bay. "Why do you even care?" the question came out in a defensively hostile hiss; Natasha's face remain blank. "Let me fuck up my own life." Seriously, she didn't need Natasha — of all people — telling her what to do. The elevator dinged at the communal floor, the doors hissing open. Carol moved to leave, but Natasha's hand wrapped around her wrist lightning quick, tugging her back into the elevator. "Let me go!" she shocked her, but the other woman didn't flinch. "Natasha."

"I care," Natasha said, her voice like steel, "because it was _you_ who called me out on my own bullshit with Steve. Told me to go after the good thing we had and hold onto it. You _saw_ how he made me happy." Her smile was one of tenderness and caring, a rare display of affection. "I see how happy you are with Thor, the way he looks at you and how you look at him — it's the same way Steve and I look at each other — you love him."

Carol yanked her arm free, glowering at her friend. How dare Natasha tease the deep secrets of her heart free. How dare Natasha be that perceptive and tell her what she needed to hear. "It wasn't what you think it was," she said, voice edged with dark anger, "it was just fucking. A one night stand. Nothing special."

"Bullshit," Natasha said, "you know it. I know it. Stop lying to yourself and —"

"Oh fuck off, Natasha!" Carol rounded on her, photons sparking in her eyes. "Stop acting so high and mighty just because Steve is fucking you. A month ago you couldn't even admit to yourself that you liked him. So don't you dare lecture me on relationships when you've Steve's the first decent relationship you've had since Murdock!"

"At least I have a healthy relationship," she said, "and at least I can admit to myself I love Steve, and I want a future with him. What can you tell yourself Carol? What do you want in your life? Do you even want Thor apart of it? I know want Steve in my life for as long as I can have him in it. That I want to _share_ my life with him, no matter what happens. Can you say that? Do you want to share your life with Thor?"

"You know nothing of my life," she said, "you have no idea what's it like to be taken from your home and brainwashed into a murdress, to have no idea who you are anymore!" Tears — hot and angry and bitter — burned at the corner of her eyes, her hands glowing the color of molten iron. "To learn that you are the very _thing_ you hate. You have no idea what's it like to learn your own mother is the enemy."

A dark sardonic half smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth; Carol had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "I don't, do I?"

"Natasha, I—"

"You need to get your priorities straight, Danvers," she said. Carol wasn't sure which she wanted more: emotion in Natasha's voice or expression on her face, the lack of both made a shiver run down her spine. "You can't change the fact your mother's Kree. All you can do is wipe the red from your ledger." She blinked. "And be honest with Thor." She hit a button, the doors opening. "But if you rather run away" — she gestured to the empty common room — "by all means, go."

She sniffed, wiping her eyes and exited the elevator, watching the chrome plated doors close. The blurry image of her stared back and the urge to shoot a photon blast at it overwhelmed her. Sighing, she closed her eyes, willing the surge of power to dissipate. She headed to her room.

Chewie and Goose snoozed on the cat tree, cuddled together, blissfully unaware of the troubles plaguing her. She sent a text to Natasha, asking her to watch her cats while she's away, and placed her phone in the drawer of her nightstand, not bothering to see if her friend had replied. Though, she wasn't sure if Natasha was her friend anymore, not after what she said. How could she have been so stupid. Sighing, she changed into her uniform, the AI enhanced material hugging her body with comforting familiarity. The red, blue and gold gleaming in the dim light and she traced the starburst of Hala.

Stepping out onto the balcony, a chill breeze nipped at her nose, the city murmuring below her. Sighing, she climbed onto the ledge and watched the sunrise. Doubt squeezed her heart, chilling her for a moment. Go back, go back to Thor, talk to him — she pushed down the doubt, remembering what Yon-Rogg told her about controlling her emotions, using her brain over her heart — she stepped out into the emptiness of the sky and fell. Wind whipped her hair back, chilled her skin and made her stomach lurch into her chest. When she was a kid, she always imagined what it would be like to free fall, just imagining the thrill gave her goosebumps. With a thought, she flew over the amazed heads of the early birds and late nighters of the city's populace. A few shouted that it was Captain Marvel and they waved at her as she zoomed by, angling up towards the stars.

Higher, further, faster — she pushed herself. Her helmet materialized, the HUD display ticking off the alitude and speed she was traveling at. The sound barrier already broken. Sudden weightlessness indicated she had broken the Earth's atmosphere, escaped it's gravitational pull. Endless nothingness punctured only by the faint silver pinpricks of stars stretched before her and she hung there watching everything as her binary corona sparkled around her. Below was the blue gem of Earth, New York about sixty-two miles below her. She could go back. She _should_ go back, but too many things prevented her from turning around and facing her demons. Plus, the siren's lure of the stars sang to her and she pushed forward for a while only to stop and hang once more in the vacuum of space. She held her hand and swiped up on her bracer's touch pad.

The nothingness before her wrapped and wriggled, revealing a moment later her modest Kree fighter that she liberated from the Kree Empire during her time with Talos. Floating towards her, she grabbed a groove in the hull and pulled herself towards the door. She pressed her hand against the scanner and the door hissed opened and she stepped across the threshold. A modestly sized ship, a few hundred feet long and wide, fully stock for several months journey. The quite was a welcome blessing and she settled into the pilot's seat. The ship's AI greeted her and she positioned the craft's nose away from Earth. "Please enter jump-point coordinates," the AI said. Carol sighed, looking down at her homeworld, before typing in the jump-point for the Andromeda Galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> This is a Romanogers/Danverson story FYI. I just have been neglecting the Danverson angle cause I needed to establish the Romanogers. The story will still focus primarily on Romanogers however, so don't get your panties in a knot. 
> 
> Brooches were a common token of affection in the Middle Ages, especially among the wealthy. I also lean more heavily on Norse mythology as I'm not well versed in his comics mythos. I also use the Norse spelling for things too (at least according to Wikipedia 😋)
> 
> Happy Halloween. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	22. Silence Between The Words

_The meaning is found in the silence between the words. No love and not lust, lets do what we must though it hurts. Gone is the face of beauty I found in you. Gone is the grace and gone are the days we knew._ — _The Dark Element_

* * *

Retirement. Now that was something he had never entertained. Lazily he ran his finger up Natasha's spine, with the grey gloomy gloaming of early morning squeezing through the gaps of the curtains. Fresh wash linen, her musky scent, the dry metallic smelling air — content to bask in the moment. Warmth radiated from her body, skin softer than the finest silks. Flawless — her scars never an imperfection in his mind, instead a reminder of her fortitude and perseverance. Artist fingers had memorized each divot and bump, the leathery smoothness of her scars contrasting with her skin's silky softness. And he knew the stories of each. To think that she wanted to abandon the life that gave her such bloodied mementos.

It wasn't retirement per se. Rather, they would enter a semi-retired status, only joining the Avengers when the situation called for it. With the remaining time they could pursue other activities: Natasha mentioned she wanted to open a dance studio for underprivileged children. He once had a dream of owning a corner store, and studying at the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts — fantastical dreams of an impoverished boy, now seemed obtainable. If nothing else he could go back to art school.

Steve leaned forward and kissed the divot at the small of her back. Natasha hummed, coiling around the pillow, auburn lashes kissing rose petal pink cheeks. The curve of her buttocks, sloping down to her supple thigh, rising to her sculpted calf — muscles rolling like the hills of Ireland. Aphrodite made flesh. "What're you doing, soldier?" Natasha didn't bother opening her eyes as she rolled on her back. Smiling, he rested his head on her stomach, watching her from between her breasts. A half smirk quirked on her lips. "Or are you just admiring the view?"

"I always enjoy the view," he said, shifting to cage her against the bed with his powerful body. She told him once that men bracketing her against the bed would send a shiver of fear down her spine — something he had trouble seeing as she could easily overpower any man if she wanted to — but with him she felt protected. Natasha smiled. "You're sure about this?" he asked.

"Yeah." She reached out, brushing some hair from his brow. He leaned into her touch, kissing the heel of her palm. "I want to be _just_ Natasha for once."

He chuckled. God, he could get lost in those viridian eyes of hers. His mother once told him of the emerald fields of Ireland — the last sight of her homeland as the ship sailed towards the American shore, miles and miles away — Natasha's eyes reflected that greenness, of a bygone time when chivalry was real and men had honor. "Sorry," he whispered.

"For what?" she cocked her head, red hair fanning out, a bloody contrast to the white of the pillow.

"For late," he said, picking up a strand of her hair and coiling it around his fingers. "I finally have a home and I guess" — he sighed, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts — "it felt too good to be true and I was afraid of losing it. Afraid that if I gave in, I would… I would be betraying my past."

Natasha blinked. "And now?"

"I'm honoring it. I'm fulfilling Peggy's last wish — to live my life, how I see fit" — he pecked her lips — "I'm happy."

"Good." She smiled. "I'm happy too." Wiggling free from him, she reached under the bed and pulled out a sapphire blue scarf, the yarn soft and velvety. "I hope you like it," she said, wending the scarf around his neck. "I had uh — brief — crochet kick."

Steve ran his hand along the scarf. Feeling the soft texture beneath his fingers: soft, a bit slippery, and snuggly — every stitch made with love. "I love it" — he smiled — "thanks. When did you have a crochet kick?"

She shrugged one shoulder, a lazy smile on her lips as she trailed her finger along his lower lip. "Over the summer. After I came back from Russia. I got bored, made a blanket for Lila and a scarf for you."

"Oh." He took it off, setting it on the nightstand and spooning her against his large body. Sunrise inched ever closer. The sounds of Manhattan waking from it's nightly slumber could be heard — distant and faint — sounds alien and familiar: men heading to work and women shepherding their children off to school, mechanical hums and groans, the honk of car horns and the drone of planes. A comforting white noise that, along with Natasha's warmth and the comfort of the bed, tugged at him to sleep a little bit longer. "You know," he said, a pensive tone in his voice. Natasha hummed. "I wish Sam and I had found Bucky." She stiffened in his arms as he pulled her closer, nuzzling her nape. "Knowing he's alive… that he's probably out there spending Christmas alone… even when I had nothing, I had Bucky."

"Steve, I—"

"It's okay, Nat," he said, running his fingers through her hair, "just something I wish for. Would be nice. The four of us spending Christmas together: you, me, Sam and Bucky — my family" — a dopey smile spread across his face — "that would be the perfect Christmas. Though if he could sew me now he'd laugh. Always said I was too serious, that I needed to learn to relax.

"Steve, about Bucky, I—"

Steve shook his head. "Later," he said, "I want you to come to Brooklyn with me. Since you gave me a surprise, I gotta give you one." She frowned; he chuckled when she went cross-eyed watching him peck the tip of her nose. "Tit for tat, Romanoff."

"Isn't that a little bit childish, Rogers?" she arched a brow, as he pulled her and the blankets closer, creating a cocoon of blissful warmth around him. O, how he wished the world would just pass them by without a care. Leave them to this small slice of heaven. He chuckled.

"Maybe, but you'll like it. Trust me." Limbs going heavy, contentment settling deep in his chest, Steve felt his eyes close as Natasha's steady breathing fanned across his collarbone. He could already see Natasha's face when he showed her the apartment he and Sam picked out. The terrace with the view of the East River and the Manhattan skyline. The stairs that lead to the roof where they could snuggle beneath blankets and tell stories and try to pick out any stars that shown bright enough to penetrate the veil of New York's lights. The spacious living room with bay windows, the full kitchen, the master bedroom that featured a walk in closet, the master bath with a Jacuzzi tub, the two spare rooms and guest bath — he couldn't wait to see how she'd decorate the place, maybe he'll actually finish that painting of the ballerina and hang it up in their apartment. A blank canvas waiting for them to make it their home.

Voices just at the edge of hearing slithered their way into his consciousness, yanking him awake as the door opened. "— Tony trust me, Nat's scary if you wake her up! Even the other guy won't mess with her!"

"Steve, settle something for us?" Tony stood at the foot of the bed, perplexed, while Bruce stayed by the threshold, looking panicked. Groggily, Natasha shifted to look at the interlopers. "Would you rather have magnet bracers or a suit of armor like mine?"

"What?" he frowned, confused. As far as he was concerned his gear was just fine. "Uh… well, if we're discussing gear upgrades, I wouldn't mind something flexible. Maybe a flexible Kevlar fabric, that's light too." Why did Tony need to discuss this _now_ of all things was beyond him.

"Tony, stop it, leave them alone," Bruce said. "C'mon, let's get back to the lab. I want to run a few tests on—"

"Steve?" Natasha looked at him, befuddled, then she looked at Bruce and Tony. Banner looked ghost white and took another step back from the door. Odd, considering the Hulk would protect him in any scenario or maybe the Hulk was afraid of Natasha. Tony on the other hand, seemed to be ignoring all social cues that he was not welcomed right now. "What's going on?"

"Or can you let me have your shield?" Tony asked, forging on without a care. He walked towards the window, pressing his palm lightly against the curtains and as if by magic, they rolled up and allowed the golden yellow of the morning light it pour in, bright and unforgiving. Natasha growled, pulling the comforter over her head. Tony faced him. "It's the only piece of vibrainium we have. I could melt it down and—"

"Tony, you're thick as shite and only half as handy." Peeved, he got out of bed, drawing himself to his full height and making sure every pound of his serum enhanced muscles were behind it. It pleased him when Tony swallowed and took a step back; he won't deny that he smirked — and maybe there was a tinge of malice behind the curl of his lips. "What? Cat got your tongue or are you just _that_ jealous?" Tony flushed. "You can't just _melt_ my shield down to harvest the vibrainium." Howard made that shield for him. It was one of the few things he still had from his life before the ice. The only thing he had from Howard Stark — his friend. He'll be damned if he let Howard's upstart pissant son melt it down to coat his glorified Tin Man outfit.

"My father made that shield—"

" _For me_." Even Bruce heard the steel in his words. "Peggy even approved of it. So, no, you can't have it. If you want to upgrade my gear, give me something that's light, flexible and bulletproof."

"But—"

"No!" he rubbed his face, anger spiking. A vein in his temple throbbed and his head hurt. Too early, lack of food and coffee; all he wanted to do was go back to bed and cuddle with Natasha. "If that's all you want, you and Bruce can leave now."

"It's my tower," Tony said, "I built it. I let you live here. It's my money that buys the food and everything else and—"

"You only own eighty-five percent," Natasha said from her position on the bed, one hand beneath her pillow. "The other fifteen belongs to Pepper."

"Well, I…" Tony stammered, scratching at his jaw.

" You know, it's aggravating having people barge in on you when you want some privacy and I can't even have that because JARVIS is recording everything! Even if it—"

" _He_. JARVIS is a he," Tony said. Steve scowled.

"—doesn't share everything with you, it's still stored in his data banks. I'm sick of it. I want somewhere that's private, that's my own, where I can live my life without having to worry about robots spying on me or people barging in when I want some privacy."

"Yeah, well hate to break it to you, but privacy like you remember it is a thing of the past" — Tony pulled out his phone — "we're all connected now Steve. Google, Facebook, Twitter — all of social media — monitoring every detail of your daily life. What you buy, who you vote for, what porn" — Tony yelped when Steve grabbed his phone and snapped it in half — "that was a cutting edge prototype for the new StarkFone!"

"Oops." A shrug. "Shit happens." He folded his arms over his chest. "You promised us — myself, Nat, Carol, Thor, Clint, and Bruce — that if we agreed to live here that you would respect our privacy and not barged in. I can let Carol slide — the Air Force doesn't believe in doors after all — and Thor because at least he tries to respect doors — but you don't. I'm frankly sick and tired of it, Tony."

"I can't believe you just _broke_ my phone!" Tony stared at the two halves of the phone, a pale blue arch sparked for a heartbeat than fizzled out.

"I'm sure you have all the data backed up on JARVIS."

"Well — _yeah_ , but—"

"No. I want you and Bruce to leave. To answer your question: magnet bracers. Now go." He took a step towards Tony. The man swallowed, clutching his broken phone to his chest and glanced at Natasha, who gave him a look akin to a disgruntled cat.

Tony swallowed, squaring his shoulders and looked between Steve and Natasha. Steve cocked a brow, waiting to see what Tony did, what that gleam in his eyes meant. "You're right," Tony said, pocketing the broken halves of the phone. "Shit does happen, and yeah — we worked together, saved the world together from an alien army and Thor's deranged brother — but when it comes down to it Rogers, you're only special because some nutty German professor gave you a bottle filled with special goop" — Tony glanced at Natasha — "and I thought that would be your stupidest mistake, bur I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong. You're dating Romanoff here. And I know you may think you can trust her, but she betrayed one country already, what makes you think she's gonna stay loyal to this one?" Tony stared at Natasha. "You can take a leopard out of the jungle but you can't change it's spots. Once a turncoat, always a turncoat."

Nostrils flaring, the angry boiling over, Steve reacted. His fist would've crushed Tony's skull if it wasn't for Bruce, brown eyes a now vivid green and his chest rising and falling in deep heavy breaths. "It's not worth it Steve," Bruce said, his voice straining against the Hulk wanting to escape, green veins bulging in his neck. "Trust me."

"He's too much of a coward to even do it," Tony said, "doesn't have any balls on him." Steve lunged for Tony but a thunderous crack stopped him in his track. The three men turned to stare at Natasha, clutching the sheet to her chest and a gun in her hand. Her face void of expression, not even a hint of what she was thinking glinting her eyes.

"Oops." She tilted her head like a curious puppy. "I missed."

Bruce tugged on Tony's shoulder. "Let's go Tony. It's not… trust me," he said, voice sounding strained and sweat beading at his brow. How much longer could he hold the monster at bay, Steve wondered, or did Bruce secretly wish to let the Hulk out. Tony glared at them before following Bruce.

Seething, Steve dressed in silence, not even bothering to look at Natasha. He should of have better control, shouldn't've stooped to something so childish and petty as to break Tony's phone. What would his mother say? Steve closed his eyes, trying to find a central calm that escaped him. All that remain was vortex of doubt and anger. Dark hissing whispers confirming that Tony was right, that Natasha would leave him, that he wasn't nearly as special as Dr. Erskine lead him to believe, that Bucky was right — he only wanted to join the army to prove that he was a _man_.

"Steve?" Natasha's gentle voice felt like sandpaper against raw nerves.

"I'm going out," he said, "don't know when I'll be back." He grabbed his jacket, pausing at the door. A sigh escaped him and he looked back at Natasha and for a moment he thought he saw _fear_ in her eyes or maybe doubt. Mustering a smile he said, "I just need to clear my head," and left.

* * *

Thor knew that Carol was gone even before he woke. Something deep in his bones told him she was no longer by his side. A profound ache he didn't quiet know what to make of — akin to nostalgia and melancholy, as if he was missing a limb or a part of his soul. For that reason, he remained in bed, staring at the enchanted ceiling mimicking stars alien to earth. The heavens of Asgard. Once, in the not too distant past, he would have said that Asgard was the most beautiful thing he ever laid eyes on. Her golden spires reaching to the heavens like the golden fingers of the gods. The lush forests teaming with life and mystery and magic, bubbling arcane wellsprings bursting forth from root and brook. The mountains, silent and snow capped, sentinels from a bygone age older than even his father. The shimmering Bifröst, glittering forth from the heart of Asgard's aureate palace to the very edge of the planet itself.

Then he saw Carol, glowing in the sky as she carried Stark down to earth. Golden hair aglow with the light of a thousand supernovas, billowing in an unseen solar wind. The deep sapphire and brilliant ruby of her uniform, the stellar glow highlighting the golden starburst between her breasts. She held Stark in her arms, descending towards the earth like a Valkyrie returning the honored dead to Valhalla. She touched the ground, delicate as a fairy alighting on a leaf, the golden glow vanishing into her skin and he saw her eyes for the first time: bluer than the sky of Asgard and just as endless. The golden spires of the City Eternal lost their illustrious luster in that moment.

Loki would curse him for a fool, falling for yet another Earth-born woman. Odin would rage that he had dalliances with a Kree (despite the fact that Carol was only half) one of their sworn enemies. Thor figured only his mother would smile and give her approval. But in the end it didn't matter. Thor tossed the furs off, standing up with a soft groan, stretching out muscles and joints. He had bedded countless shield-maidens in his brash and reckless youth: some from Midgard, others from Vanaheim, and a few from Asgard. Strong women with fierce voices, not milksop shepherds' daughters. Carol eclipsed them all.

Bold, fierce, brash, confident to the point of arrogance (the same lesson his father taught him when he cast him out of Asgard), yet tempered with a good heart that wanted to succor all the innocent and hapless souls of the world. They shared the same feeling of being outcasts, Midgard a strange world to both of them. It was small wonder they hung out together, wrestling in the special room Tony built for their incredible powers, or bowling at one of the bowling alleys Carol found. He enjoyed the most when they took walks through the city, Carol sharing memories from a time that felt so long ago or when they flew into the vacuum of space and danced among the stars.

A god of storms, a woman of light.

The mirror didn't hold any answers. Thor frowned, tracing the myriad of cicatrices that crisscrossed his body. It took a great deal of power to scar godflesh. Most of the scars came from dragons, giants or trolls that he fought in his youth **—** before the gift of Mjölnir. Most had paled to a thin shiny line. Calloused fingers found the two thick scars: one at his shoulder, the other on the opposite hip. A frown etched deep into his face as he remembered the cold and the snow, the hot hiss of his blood staining the white ground as unholy black blades cut deep into his flesh, the raspy damned voice of a creature fouler than any foe he had faced in his entire life begging him to scream, to give into the pain. Thor closed his eyes, fingers gentle upon the marred flesh.

Gentle caresses, teasing away the lingering pain. "How did you get these?" Carol asked, as they laid together, enjoying the lingering afterglow of their passionate lovemaking. The fire in the hearth now low glowing embers, casting long deep shadows across their faces. "I thought you were invulnerable."

He shook his head. "Nay," he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers. "A god can be injured, slain even — if conditions are right. Nothing lasts forever, not even gods. But for us, death is a long way off, that we seem immortal in the eyes of humans." His thumb caressed her palm, memorizing the lines and trying to remember what his mother said about them. Loki was better at the arcane arts — had the talent and the patience for the craft. "Long ago," he said, threading his fingers with hers, "I fought with some of the bravest warriors of Midgard. We clashed against a mighty foe — alas, I had a different quarry that day. I found the fiend in the sky… killing."

"Killing?"

"Killing gods." Thor closed his eyes. "We battled. For every blow I dealt, he dealt me thrice more. Even though I cleaved his arm off." He chuckled. "I would have fallen that day, but with the last of my strength, I struck him down with a mighty lightning strike." He closed his eyes. "I slept for seventeen days. I never spoke of this fiend to anyone… until now. It still haunts my nightmares."

Carol hummed, shifting to lay on top of him. She kissed him, fingers running through his beard, down his neck and settling on his broad warrior shoulders. "I'm here," she said, "I won't let anything hurt you. The dark fears the light" — she glowed, arcs of her power leaping across her form, eyes a deep gold — "and I'm made of light." She smirked — such easy confidence in her own prowess — kissing his chin.

He smiled. "Aye," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "You are." He kissed her. "Carol?" he asked. She hummed against his lips. "About your family" — she pulled away to look at him, a frown etching on her face — "I… when I was a child, I was afraid of my father. My earliest memories of him were of him in his armor, great winged helm upon his head. A one-eyed bearded giant to my young mind, always frowning with disapproval at something. The guards would have to net me if he wanted to speak to me. When I was a little older, they'd tie me to the leg of his chair when he wanted me to sit besides him in the great hall." He closed his eyes, wondering if he ever got over his fear of Odin or if he just got better at hiding it. "What I'm trying to say is that family can be tough… and if you want to talk about it. I'll listen. I may not be well verse on advice, but" — he stroked her cheek, skin peach soft — "I'm here for you, my love."

Carol leaned into his touch, not saying anything. "It's fine Thor," she said, kissing his throat and coaxing a groan from him. "I'm over it." The dismissive tone in her voice reminded him of Loki whenever his brother pretended to not care about something that was clearly bothering him. Before he could press the issue further, Carol ground her hips against his and he grabbed her biceps, a low moan escaping him as she gently traced all the tender spots of his body.

At some point even the gentle caress of his own fingers couldn't cast away the nagging feeling that his night with her was her way of distracting him. Doubt clawed at his belly, urging him to investigate further. He looked up at the enchanted ceiling and for a moment wondered if he could call on Heimdall to aid him, find out where Carol was, but he thought better of it. Maybe last night and all the days spent together previously had been lies? Carol didn't do well when discussing her feelings. Not that he was any better at it.

It wasn't unheard of, he reasoned as he made his way to her chambers. The plush carpet of the tower muffled his heavy footfalls. Women had been known only to want him for his bedroom prowess and little else. How many women had he bedded in such a manner? More than he could count probably. Knocking, the door hissed opened and the meow of her cats reached him. "Carol?" he called, walking into the empty room. Chewie and Goose came trotting out. Smiling, he pet both. "Good cats," he said. He liked cats, though he was more fond of goats; all Aesir had a special connection with felines, even Loki enjoyed them. With her cats in toe, Thor checked each room and found them empty of Carol. Much of her things remained as she had left them, almost as if she simply vanished. Again, he toyed with the idea of calling upon Heimdall to see if she was alright. "You two hungry?" he asked, after his search of her bedroom turned up nothing. The cats meowed, trotting towards the kitchen, their tails held high.

He chuckled, following them and opened cupboards until he found the one containing food. The cupboard was filled with small cans from top to bottom, Goose and Chewie mewing happily when he found it. He looked at them, wondering how much Carol normally fed them. "Well, there's two." He grabbed two cans and two bowls. For a moment he considered twisting the cans to open them, then saw the tab on the top. A simple pull and the top came off and the cats were fed moments later.

He watched them eat, pleased with himself. The sunlight poured through the window, dust motes dancing in the golden rays. The space felt empty without Carol's presence and he felt alone in a manner he never felt before, a deep rooted emptiness in his chest, more vast than the endlessness of space. It reminded him of what his father said about the length of Time: how weary it grew, seeing the centuries drift by, the fleeting lives of mortal men; a tiredness deep in the bones of the world. Goose meowed, licking his chops and nudged the bowl until it met something on the countertop. Frowning, Thor picked up the discarded trinket and his heart plummeted when he saw that it was the necklace he had given Carol. Goose meowed again, poking the bowl with his nose.

There was only one thing to do at this point. Only one person he felt comfortable enough to discuss these sort of things with. He thrust out his hand, calling Mjölnir. The hammer's familiar leather grip met his palm, a surge of power flowed through him and with a twirl he was airborne, the window shattering like ice before him. He'll pay Tony later for the damages… maybe.

* * *

Steve had no idea where he was going. He was just walking and trying not to think, trying to lose himself in the crowd. People hurried about their day: businessmen and businesswomen in their suites and pencil skirts, brief cases in hand as they trotted towards their towering office buildings. Youths with hair the many shades of the rainbow, plugged into the latest technological gizmo of the day, oblivious to the passing world around them. Homeless people shuffling through the alleyways with shopping carts filled with discarded junk or trash, peering out at the clean people on the sidewalk. The streets choked with cars: yellow cabs and sleek sedans of the upper class, city buses and industry trucks. Horns honking to encourage the sluggish New York traffic to move.

The pulse of New York hadn't changed in seventy years. People still hustle and bustled their way through the streets, though it did seem that more cars filled the streets than he remembered. He missed the days when foot-traffic was the norm. The drone of airplanes overhead caused him to look up, watching the giant metal machines soar lazily through the sky. It amazed him how _young_ the airplane was in terms of history, yet how much man had achieved once he mastered the skies.

Streets vendors hawked their wares, from food to clothes to cheap designer knockoffs. Tourists traps with Avenger themed trinkets (mostly of Iron Man) and New York memorabilia ranging from loving the city to its various sport teams. The smells of grease and coffee mingled with the noxiously sweet fumes of exhaust; everything knife sharp from the cold.

It helped keep his mind from drifting into thoughts he didn't want to think about. What if Tony was right that Natasha would backstab the country — and by extension him? What if she didn't really love him? Not that Tony said that, but Steve felt that was something he was alluding to. He glanced at a coffee shop as he walked pass, studying the people within: young mothers with their babies, college students pouring over books, businesswomen getting their almond milk lattes. He could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg of the holiday drinks, the linger scent of chocolate and sharp peppermint. Biting his lip, he walked on, head down, knowing that nobody would take notice of him: New Yorkers were too consumed by their own lives than to pay attention to anything else. Getting lost in the sea of humanity was easy.

Steve trudged on, telling himself that he joined the army to help people — to stop the bullies of the Axis powers — it wasn't because he had something to prove like Bucky said. He went along with Project: Rebirth because it was his only chance to fight for his country. Not for any other ulterior motive. Tony was wrong, right? Too caught up in his thoughts, he bumped a young woman as he walked pass. "Hey, watch it!" she shouted.

"Oh, I'm—" he stopped, eyes widening when he recognized her. " _Kate_?" he asked in disbelief. The woman frowned, then her eyes widened.

"Steve," she said, "hi!" She smiled. "It's Sharon, by the way." And stepped to the side, closer to the building. Steve followed her, tucking his hands into his pockets. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here now," he said, "after Shield fell I moved back to New York. Finally found a place in Brooklyn, so…" he trailed off. The penthouse apartment that overlooked the East River, the place he hoped to make a home with Natasha, somewhere where they could live a simple life. A life away from their heroic identities of Captain America and Black Widow, away from being Avengers. A place where they could just be a man and a woman in love and figuring out this crazy journey that is life together. A dream he held onto since his boyhood. "What are you doing here? I heard you were out of the country."

"I am," she said, grimacing as people glared at them for holding up the foot-traffic on the sidewalk. "Hey, you wanna grab that cup of coffee?" A twinkle appeared in her eyes. "The one you offered in exchange for using your washer."

He laughed, jerking a little when he felt his phone buzz against his hand. He glanced at it, Natasha's image on the screen. _Hey love, I'm fine. I'm just out taking a walk and clearing my head. Don't want to talk right now. Text me if there is anything you want. I'm gonna grab some coffee._ He hit the send button, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Sure," he said, gesturing to the café he had just passed.

The inside of the café was humid and warm. Steam gurgled from the machines that foamed the milk. Christmas music chimed from the speakers hidden in the walls and ceiling. The baristas calling out customer names and people coming and going with their drinks in hand. He and Sharon found a quiet little out of the way nook by the window to enjoy their coffees in peace. The bitter black liquid perked his nerves up, he set his phone on the table as he watched the people walk pass the window. Grey clouds drifted overhead, obscuring the blue sky from earlier. It was going to snow later today. "So." He didn't know where to begin.

"I guess the cat's outta the bag." He frowned, flummoxed. Sharon chuckled, pushing some hair behind her ear. "I'm Peggy's grandniece," Sharon said.

"Oh." A half smile tugged at his lips. "That secret. Yeah, kinda is. Sorry if you er… wanted to keep it a secret."

Sharon laughed, leaning back in her chair. "It's okay, you were bound to find out sooner or later. Surprised you didn't figure it out sooner though." She sipped her coffee. "How did you find out?"

"Peggy's nursing home called me. Said I was an emergency contact. They couldn't reach you." He closed his eyes. It hurt. Peggy had once been such a vibrant young woman, full of moxie and fire. Now Alzheimer's was slowly taking away the very essence of who she was. "She's taken care of," he said, folding his hands around the coffee cup and unable to meet Sharon's gaze. "I made sure of that. You don't have to worry about nothin'."

Her hand covered his. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft and tender, "for doing that for… for my family. I don't think any of us really understand how much we're indebted to you."

He looked up. "What do you mean?" Peggy was well on her way to making a name for herself on her own. Everything she had ever achieved she fought for with her own two hands. "I had very little to do with anything."

"Modest," Sharon said, "but stupid." A smile. "Aunt Peggy founded Shield because of you. You… you inspired her to be better than who she was, encouraged her to do more. I remember sitting in the living room of her house, watching old newsreels of the war. She would tell me stories about you." Sharon's shoulders slumped a little. "She always seemed so sad whenever she talked about you. Now I know why."

"I loved her," he whispered and took a long swallow of his coffee. It was better than the sludge he drank in the army, but inferior to the coffee he had at the tower. "I still do, just…" he shook his head, unsure how to sort his feelings for Peggy into words. Natasha understood. He never had to voice it, she just _knew_. "So, you're back in the States for—"

"The holidays," Sharon said. "I always liked New York during Christmas, so that's why I'm here. I'm heading back down to Richmond afterwards to spend New Year's with my family." The door opened, letting in a burst of wintery New England cold, the little bell chiming from the top of the door frame. "What about you?"

"I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing for Christmas this year. Probably got to Mass… maybe," he said. "You know… Natasha wanted me to call you," he said, only to mentally kick himself after the words left his lips. Sharon reeled back, eyes wide and jaw slack in disbelief. Then a sultry smile spread across her face and he felt heat climb into his cheeks. She grabbed his hand, squeezing his fingers. He hesitated for a moment before pulling his hand back.

"Why didn't you?" she asked.

Because you aren't Natasha. "I don't know," he said, dropping his gaze to his knees. A prickling crept up his spine, an urging whisper hissing in his heart that told him to leave and go back to Natasha. Stubbornly, he stayed put.

"Well" — she leaned back, tossing some hair over her shoulder — "I think having coffee with you is way better than a phone call. Maybe we can… do this again, if you ever find yourself in Germany." An obvious note of hope was present in her voice. Betray and guilt squirmed in his gut and he felt like vomiting. Taking a breath, he let it out.

"No." He smiled. "I don't think that's a good idea. My girlfriend wouldn't like that. We're just two former colleagues having a friendly cup of coffee." Sharon didn't say anything, merely sipped her coffee. His phone buzzed again, this time with an understanding message from Natasha and a request for a meatball sub. Sharon looked at him, a brow cocked.

"When Fury assigned me the position of bring your bodyguard, I thought Romanoff was gonna kill me when she found out."

"Really?" That sounded a little extreme. Even for Natasha.

"Yup. She really wanted it. Unfortunately, she had another assignment and Fury gave it to me. You know she would come and visit you every day while they were defrosting you and when you were still sleeping in that mock 40s hospital room. She wanted to be there when you woke up too, but she couldn't make it."

"Oh." Knowing Natasha had been with him since the beginning, always by his side even if he didn't know it — it warmed his heart. "I didn't know that." He smiled.

"I think you know the answer, Steve," she said. "Why you never called me." A wash of cold shuddered through him. He knew that look. Howard had dubbed it the Carter Perception. A look Peggy had perfected during his time at basic training. It always reminded him of her peering into his soul. He wasn't surprised that Sharon had the same look. "Scuttlebutt at Shield was that Romanoff was easy" — he bristled at that comment — "I mentioned that to Aunt Peggy once. She set me straight." Sharon finished her coffee. "I'm happy for you." Sharon reached out and patted his cheek. "I watched you for two years and even I could tell how lonely you were."

"I wasn't—"

"You were," she said. "I'm glad you found someone that makes you happy. Kinda wished it was me, if I'm being honest. But whenever Romanoff came to visit, I always saw how you lit up around her. It wasn't easy to see, but I could tell she seemed… different around you. She wasn't so cold, I guess." She stood up, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Thanks for the coffee, Steve." She wove through the crowd and exited. He watched her walk down the street. Picking up his phone he called Natasha, chuckling when she added some mint chocolate chip ice cream to her order.

"Sure, I'll pick that up too," he said, "anyway can you meet me in Brooklyn? I'll text you the address."

* * *

Thor never could figure out Darcy Lewis. He figured she was what Tony called a hipster, but at the same time he felt that hipsters liked to hug trees and drink milk of various plants and wore glasses that made their eyes look like an insect's. Hipsters reminded him of patrons of Aegir and Viðarr (he never really liked either of them very much, though Aegir was fun to drink with). Darcy never struck him as being like those people. The few students in the small antechamber stared him, eyes widen and trying to be discrete as they took pictures of him with their phones. Darcy blew a bubble, it popped breaking the silence and she smacked her gum back into her mouth. "Jane's in with a student."

"Tell her, I must see her," he said, drawing himself to his full height. "This is of urgent importance." Darcy didn't scare easily. Thor wouldn't expect her to after dealing with Malekith and the Destroyer. She had what Steve would call moxie. So did Jane. "Please." He smiled. She sighed, getting up from her chair and poking her head into the office behind her. Closing the door, Darcy smiled at him as a pencil-necked young man slunk out of the office and offered him a timid glance.

"You can go in now," Darcy said. He nodded, entering Jane's office. The space felt small, shelves choked with books, her desk cluttered with papers and filing trays, a computer behind her, images of the cosmos appearing every few moments. Pictures of her and various colleagues, as well as a man he didn't recognized. Thor picked that one up, studying the man with blond hair and tanned skin.

"You can put that down," Jane said, running a hand through her hair, looking harried. Grunting, he set it down, before taking a seat. The chair groaned beneath his way and he set Mjölnir on her desk. "So… why are you here?" she asked. "I thought after the whole Dark elf thing we… you and Captain Marvel… did you two break up?"

It felt like that's what Carol wanted. "No," he said and pulled out the necklace he had given Carol. "She's gone though, and she this." Jane arched her brow as she sunk into her chair. "Do you know why she would do that?" He swallowed, guilt swirling in his heart. "Did I do something wrong? Was I not around enough? Does she require more acts of valor on my part? Gifts of my affection? I brought her a fanged rose from Vanaheim, she suggested I pick another and give it to Tony Stark… I don't think she liked it. Maybe if I went to Nidavellir and got the dwarves to craft her jewelry from the finest of gems — or silks from Alfheim, the finest in all the Nine Realms!" He stroked his beard. "Slaying a dragon or a giant never hurts your chances with a maiden, though. Maybe a troll. Would she approve of me slaying a troll?"

Jane laughed, hiding her face with her hands. "Oh good god," she said, "you came to me for relationship advice?" He nodded, which caused her to laugh even more. "Why don't you go ask your mom or maybe one of Carol's friends?" Thor frowned, a spark of lightning in his eyes. Jane covered her mouth, horrified at the slip. Frigga's death still haunted her nightmares. "I'm sorry Thor," she said, patting his hand. "I… I shouldn't've said that."

"I accept your apology Jane. And I know there was no ill intent behind the suggestion. It's natural to seek guidance from one's mother in these sorts of things. She's only been gone for a year… yet the pain's still as fresh as the day we lit her funeral pyre."

"I want to say it'll get easier but... I'm not sure. I never lost a parent… yet, I hope it does though." She smiled. "Is that why you came to me?"

"I figured you would know what to do." He thumbed the necklace's pendant. Carol had radiated joy when she wore it, the smile broad on her face. He never saw a more beautiful woman than that night. Even Natasha paled in the light of Carol's beauty. "I don't know why she would spend the night with me and then just leave," he said, "I thought she loved me… like I love her." He frowned. "What if I slew a gryphon and brought Carol it's head? Or maybe have it stuffed so she can display it in her chambers?"

"Wow," Jane whispered, "you… you and Carol are really going all hot and heavy." He nodded. "I'm… I don't know what you want me to say Thor." Jane picked up a pen, tapping it against the desk. "You know her better than I do. Though I'm pretty sure she wouldn't approve of a dead gryphon."

"But you're a woman, are you not?" Jane frowned. Licking his lips, he backtracked, trying to think of how to put what he want to get across into words. "What I mean is, you would naturally understand what motivates another woman? Why would she do this?" Jane's brow furrowed. "Would the head of an ogre be better as a token of my affection?"

Leaning back, she looked around at the books on the shelves, a pensive look on her face. "I'm teaching theoretical astrophysics. I like it. Wish I could get back out in the field though, and do some real research" — she tilted her head in his direction — "but you are the only person I know that has access to a functioning Einstein-Rosen Bridge."

"I don't see how this has anything to do with Carol," he said, confused. Maybe coming to Jane was a bad idea. Maybe he should've gone to Natasha. Tony said that Natasha knew a lot about relationships. Plus Carol was her friend. "I know!" he snapped his fingers, grinning with pleasure as he realized the perfect beast to slay. "A roc! It's a great big bird. Surely it would make flying easier for her if one or two were dead. It would prove myself to her and—"

"Thor, Carol doesn't want you to go slaying monsters and dragons—"

"You don't understand Jane! How else am I going to prove to her that I'm worthy of her unless — I know! I'll slay a dragon, a roc, tame a unicorn and get her the finest silks and jewels in all the Nine Realms!"

Her eye twitched, a vein in her temple throbbed in annoyance. "If you don't knock this idiocy off Thor" — she wrapped her hand around Mjölnir's hilt — "I'm going to smack you in the head with your own hammer!" And leveled Mjölnir at his chest. Dark storm clouds brewed over her head, thunder rumbling. "Nobody — least of all you — is going to be slay dragons and taming unicorns." Darcy poked her head in, ryes going wide.

"Wow," Darcy said, eyeing the storm clouds, "Jane really is the Boss Lady." Wisely, she withdrew.

"Ymir's bloody bones! You're worthy," he whispered, eyeing his hammer in her hand. Jane followed his gaze and gave a startled gasp, setting the hammer back down, the magical storm vanishing. Thor looked up at her, smug.

"Don't give me that look." He ignored her; Jane rubbed her temples with a sigh. "My best advice Thor is to just give Carol her space." Jane smoothed her shirt as she sat back down. "I'm sure it's not a problem with you. If you want to give her something or _do_ something for her, trying to do something within her general interests. You know what to do. I mean… when we first me you got my research notes back from Shield. And when you told me about the Nine Realms and how they were all connected on the World Tree… it reminded me why I wanted to study astrophysics. It's those things… the little things that show her that you pay attention to who she is and what she's interested in… that are really meaningful."

"Oh." He nodded and stood up. "Thank you," he said. "It was good to see you again, Jane." He picked up Mjölnir. "Oh, if you ever want…" he ducked his head.

"What?"

"I can show you how to throw it" — he gestured to Mjölnir — "the hammer if… if you want."

Jane chuckled, eyeing the mystical weapon. "I'll let you know when I'm reading to be Jane, Goddess of Thunder."

* * *

Natasha pulled up to a fancy looking apartment building in Brooklyn, located near the river (she had to double check the address Steve sent her). White walls, with fancy terraces (some had plant pots — empty due to the season — hanging from the railing) and large bay windows to let in as much sunlight as possible. The entire place had the air of a luxury hotel and Natasha wondered what in the world Steve was doing here. She expected this lavish display of wealth from Tony, not from Steve.

The lobby of the place was just as glitzy. The receptionist smiled, her long painted nails clacking along the plastic computer keys. "Fancy place," Natasha said, glancing around at the polished brass furnishings and faux fine art pictures on the walls. An air of luxury but not on the same tier as Tony — low upper class if she had to guess. Budding New Money, in the speak of New York socialites. The receptionist looked up at her when she approached the counter. "Hi, I'm meeting my boyfriend here. Last name Rogers."

"Elevator's that way," the woman said, "take it to the top floor. He's already there."

Natasha frowned, "Thanks," she said, though the woman seemed to be oblivious of her, and took the elevator to the top floor. The plush carpet hallway muffling her footsteps as she neared the only door on the entire floor. Steve was leaning against the wall, waiting for her.

"Hey." The smile he gave her made her stomach do a little flip and she chided herself for such a girlish reaction. Without prompting he offered her a plastic bag. "Meatball sub as requested, with orange Fanta and a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream." He winked and tilted his head to the door. A polished brass plaque read _P1_. "Shall we?" She nodded and Steve unlocked the door, stepping into the empty space. A weight seemed to vanish from his shoulders only to be replaced with something else. Nerves, maybe.

"Wow." Natasha turned around, admiring the cream colored walls, the bamboo wood floor. The bay windows drew her attention and she trotted dancer-light to them as she stared at the lovely view of the river and the Manhattan skyline, the last rays of the sun glinting off the water, as if saying farewell before the snows came. She could even see the ships in the river. "Are these windows bulletproof or do you just like living dangerously?" she shot him a smirk. Opening the sliding door, she stepped out onto the terrace to feel the cold wind in her hair and smell the freshness of the water. Closing her eyes for a moment, she indulged in the long forgotten childhood fairytales. This reminded her of being on Neva River during the winter when she posed as a Bolshoi ballerina — the lights of St. Petersburg aglow, creating a magical air of forgotten Imperial luxury, _never forget Natalia that you have the blood of czars in your veins_ ; it was something her grandmother would always tell her.

"Take a look around," he said, gesturing to the rest of the space. Curious, she walked around, admiring the kitchen with its electric stove and oven and sink with a window that over looked the city. One bedroom offered a river view and the other a view of Brooklyn. The walk in closet took her breath away — plenty of room for her to store all her clothes (for both civilian life and undercover).

"A Jacuzzi tub?" she arched a brow, a mischievous grin on her face, when he showed her the master bathroom. "We could have some fun in that." And she winked at him, pleased to see the flush creep into his cheeks. All in all the space was lovely. Comfortable for a small family, large enough for a couple. She joined Steve in the living room, tucking her fingers into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back. "So, this is nice," she said, rocking on her feet. "But why are we here? Unless this is some elaborate way to apologize for ghosting me this morning."

Steve bowed his head bashfully. "Sam and I have been apartment hunting — well his mom's been doing more of the heavy lifting that either of us, but that's besides the point — and when I saw this I just knew…" he sighed, rubbing his neck. "And after this morning — what happened with Tony and talking with Sharon—"

"You were with Sharon?" she arched a brow. Sharon transferred to the CIA after Shield fell and if her information was correct, which she knew it was, Sharon was in Berlin. "How did you meet Sharon?"

A chuckle. "I literally ran into her on the street. She's visiting New York for the holidays," he said, "we got some coffee and had a nice chat." He stuffed his hands into his pocket. "And she… talking her made me realize a lot of things. About what I want… and I want you," he said. "I want to start that life we keep talking about. The one that's separate from the Avengers. That's why I asked you to meet me here."

"Steve, I—"

"I'm sorry I was a jerk this morning. I'm sorry for storming off like I did, but I needed… I needed to do this on my own." He pulled out a brass colored key from his pocket. He held out the key, inviting her to take it. "I told you that I wanted you to move in with me, so… if you want, this can be yours too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> First off a typical can of wet cat food is 5.5 oz — Thor gave Chewie and Goose their own can. Let that sink in. 
> 
> I've also been reading Jason Aaron's run on Thor and omfg if you only read one arch from that run read The God Butcher arch. It's amazing! The Malekith arch was fun, a typical sword and sorcery fantasy romp — totally loved it! 
> 
> I lean more towards the comics/mythology take on Thor (hence Thor is a literal god in this. He's referred to as a god in the comics. The films I felt were rather vague on his godhood). 
> 
> Carol was present during the events of the Dark World — it's ultimately how her and Thor got their spark. I do plan on doing a mini fic detailing those events. 
> 
> Jane and Thor — I always felt they were trying to start something in the movies and it never got off the ground. Indigo has it established that they have broken up sometime after DW and this fic (so let's say about a year since DW came out in 2013, and Indigo starts six months after TWS). Still, Thor is close to Jane and are on friendly terms. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys are enjoying this. Next chapter will be posted in December and will be a fluffy Romanogers Christmas chapter. :3
> 
> Until then. Happy Thanksgiving. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review. 
> 
> If you don't you kill fairies. You don't want fairies to die now do you? ಠ_ಠ
> 
> xoxoxo


	23. Snowflakes and Turtledoves

Since moving out of the tower, their lives had been a whirlwind of activity; buying furniture, moving that furniture into the apartment, decorating it (Natasha teased Steve for his spartan decorating tastes), and getting used to the quiet blissful privacy of being away from the hustle and bustle of the tower — away from JARVIS's constant digital eye on them and Tony's entitled rich boy attitude. It didn't take them long to fill the apartment with happy sounds of laughter, conversation and lovemaking. Every night, they would dance; with the Brooklyn lights creating a soft golden glow in their living room, listening to the scritchy-scratchy songs from long ago drift melodiously from Steve's record player. In those moments, the world felt infinitely vast and far, far away.

Never before had Natasha been happier. It felt like floating on clouds, walking through the air. A feeling she never experienced before, with a life tainted by death and misery. Finally, after all the heartache and hardship — winter giving way, at long last to spring — did she know peace. And Natasha found it in Steve's arms.

The sun rose bright and clear, two days before Christmas — as it wont to do after a heavy New England snowstorm the night before. Not that the chill of the north bothered Natasha, tucked beneath a thick down comforter and pressed close against Steve's broad chest (plus their apartment had a state of the art heating system in place). Natasha smiled when she felt Steve's lips against her cheek. "Good morning dear," he whispered, running his hand through her hair. She moaned, pressing her face into the pillow to hide from the waking sun and his gentle rousing. The day could fuck off for all she cared. The outside world ceased to exist — all that mattered, all that she wanted was right here in bed with her. Steve chuckled, running his hand down her spine, knuckling loose sore spots she didn't know she had. The moan came unbidden, arching into his healing touch. "Hey, c'mon. You wanted to go to that Christmas village thing today," he said.

"No." Extracting herself from her lover's arms, getting out of the warm bed and braving the New England cold — never mind the fact she was Russian and the cold never bothered her — felt crazier than Napoleon trying to invade Russia during the winter. "Don't wanna get up. Comfy." Sounding like a petulant child didn't bother Natasha in the least.

"Alright." Steve pulled her close, getting comfortable on the bed. "It's still early, they probably don't have anything open yet." Fog horns blared, heralding the arrival of the morning. Outside — Natasha could imagine — children laughing at the sight of snow, blissfully oblivious to their parents' dismay. Street cart vendors, huddling over their tiny stoves to keep the chill away from their fingers, sunlight turning the snow into a scintillating sea of sparkling diamonds. Salvation Army Santas at the street corners, ringing their little bells and ho-ho-hoing at early morning passerby's in hopes they'll offer up any loose change. Brooklyn waking on this rapturous December morn. "I love that sound," he said.

"What sound?" she asked, lifting her chin to look at him. Natasha had never seen him looked so relaxed — not even in sleep. The years and care melted from his face, revealing the handsome image of a man in his prime (on the cusp of his thirtieth birthday — biologically at least). She couldn't help but wonder if Steve had ever known such peace in his life. Probably not. Growing up in the ghettos of Brooklyn during the Great Depression didn't sound like it offered much chance to be at complete peace.

"That sound of no Tony or JARVIS coming to bother us. Just you and me," he said. It was a nice sound. A little unnerving at times — having gotten used to the electrical hum of the tower, JARVIS answering any offhand question spoken aloud, Tony barging in unwanted (as per usual) — the tower buzzed like a hive with activity no matter the time of day a stark contrast to the peace of their apartment. "Oh." He rolled over, grunting as he shuffled around in beneath the bed. Natasha huffed, closing her eyes again, pulling the covers over her nose. Thick comforters and heavy blankets was a guilty pleasure Natasha readily indulged in any chance she got, no surprise considering she grew up in the Red Room with thread bare blankets that barely kept the harsh Russian cold at bay. "Natasha," Steve said in an annoying sing-song voice. She grunted. "Open your eyes."

Sighing, she did as he asked, opening her eyes to see him holding a twig over her their heads. "What's that?" Natasha asked, grumpy. It seemed her annoying yet loveable boyfriend, was not going to let her sleep away the morning. Something she had been doing since they moved out. While she wasn't sleeping until the afternoon like Carol, she wasn't exactly up at the crack of dawn either.

Grinning, Steve said, "Mistletoe." And kissed her. Natasha hummed, rolling onto her back and accepting his weight. "You know, you're the first dame I've kissed beneath mistletoe," he said, nuzzling her nose. "They never wanted to kiss me before."

"Well, those dames don't know what they were turning down." She ran her hands down his arms. "Even I could tell there was something special about you when you were just a stick." He tossed his head back and laughed. "I would've kissed you back then" — Natasha raked her fingers through the days' worth of stubble on his cheek — "they judged a book by it's cover without ever realizing the kind heart that laid within." She smiled, watching realization dawn in his eyes. Such a good heart that somehow persevered through all the hardship life threw at him. A part of her attributed it to Steve hiding away in fantasy: Lovecraft, Eddison, Howard, and Malory. However he managed to keep himself from becoming jaded, it made her want to strive to live up to the same ideal. God only knows how apathetic her own heart has become to the crucibles of her own life. "When I'm with you Steve… I want to be better. You make me better."

Tenderness bloomed in his face, unconditional love blossoming in his eyes as he ducked his head. "Thank you," Steve said, kissing her brow and rolling off her. "You want waffles or pancakes?" he asked, getting out bed and stretching. The muscles rippled beneath his creamy skin and Natasha couldn't help but smirk at how his black boxers accentuated the curve of his ass. "We did get that waffle iron," he said, pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms and a shirt.

"Waffles then, with whipped cream and strawberries." She sat up, pulling the comforter around her waist. A small shiver shuddered down her arms; her phone buzz on her nightstand. Whoever it was could go fuck themselves. Natasha didn't have to answer it, nothing was pressing and if they really needed her, they'll call back later — maybe then she'll be incline to answer it.

"We have strawberry jam, don't think we have any fresh berries." Steve walked towards her, kissing her deep and sensual — leaving her breathless and wanting more. For a moment, Natasha considered pulling him back into bed and tearing off his clothes. Sharing body heat was an excellent survival method against the cold. Waffles be damned. They can get waffles at IHOP. She let him go though, getting lost in his blue eyes — the same color as the summer sky, open and endless and overflowing with love. "I'll see what I can do."

"Get going soldier, I'm hungry." She pecked his lips again, ignoring the buzz of her phone. He nuzzled her, gave her one last kiss and walked out of the bedroom whistling a Christmas carol. Natasha sighed, content, as she flopped back into the mess of pillows. Steve's scent still lingering on the fabric, and she pressed her nose into it, inhaling deeply. Time slowed, each second elongating into a semblance of infinity. Golden rays illuminated the room, dust motes dancing like fairies in the aureate light. The phone buzz for a third time. "Damn it." Snatching the offending device she squinted at the screen an angry retort — something like _fuck off ublyudok_ , on the tip of her tongue — until she saw who sent it.

 _Missing Christmas with Auntie Nat! Hope to see you soon!_ A few pictures followed, of the Barton kids and Clint covered in white frosting and various sprinkles, the lights hanging from the window in the background. The last picture showcased the gingerbread house and the gingerbread cookies they made. Natasha could tell which ones the kids frosted and which ones Clint did.

 _Miss you guys too. Merry Christmas. Eat extra cookies for me._ She hit send and slipped out of bed. Natasha felt that life was currently surreal. A glance around the room revealed the duality of the living space: Steve's shield in the corner by the door with her Widow's bites draped over the top, their utility belts hanging on hooks above. The closet filled with clothes: hers on one side and his on the other. Their shoes tucked beneath everything in a neat line, like soldiers lining up for inspection. On the walls, she had hung up framed sketches Steve had drawn of New York (both current day and back during the 40s) and Washington, D.C. and the European countryside. The bathroom was the same — he had teased about the amount of shampoo and conditioner she had, considering she was a spy and tried to limit her lingering scent. Pulling on a pair of silky pajama bottoms, Natasha rummaged around in Steve's side of the closet, running her hand along his shirts and drinking in his familiar scent. A grey hoodie caught her eye, army emblazon on the front. It smelled strongly of him (a scent she was starting to associate more and more with _home_ ) and she pulled it over her head.

Making the bed relaxed her, allowing Natasha to gather her thoughts before the day started and shake the last vestiges of sleep from her consciousness. On her nightstand was a picture of Steve and another of the Barton family along with her phone. Back in the Tower, Steve had pictures of Bucky, Howard, Peggy and the Commandos on his nightstand, with a group photo of the Avengers; now, he had several pictures of her, plus his compass. And beside it, the watch she gotten him for his birthday. It made her heart flutter whenever she saw it, a grin as wide as the Grand Canyon on her face whenever he wore it.

Cinnamon and ginger lingered in the air, just beneath the smell of eggy batter and sugar. Holiday cheer seeping in from all corners and Natasha got a giddy rush at the realization that this was her _first_ holiday spent with a man as a couple — living together even. None of her previous relationships gotten this far. Sure, she was married to Alexi long enough for Christmas to come around, same with Matt — though that was merely dating — but she never _spent_ it with them. One was always left behind while the other was away. Trepidation seized her heart, and for a moment Natasha worried that Steve would want the fairytale Christmas experience: tree and decorations, caroling and gingerbread house. It was too late for the former two, probably even the third and fourth. The phone buzzed in her hand.

More pictures: the tree decorated with white lights and homemade ornaments that had been handed down from Laura's grandmother and the ones the kids made in pre-school, brightly wrapped presents nestled beneath the tree and the Christmas village lining the windowsill. _Love how you guys decorated!_ She sent, setting her phone. On cat-silent feet Natasha walked behind Steve, slipping her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss between his shoulders. White pepper, lime, and tequila — mingling with cedar and cypress — Natasha smiled, resting her cheek against his back. Home.

"Hey." He twisted around, smirking at the sight of his hoodie. "Stealing my clothes, huh?"

"You know it." She pecked his lips, then poured herself a cup of coffee, settling herself at the quaint dining table they found. The newspaper spread out at one side, opened to a half finished crossword puzzle. A laptop by her elbow, Steve's phone on top of it. Coffee rings peeking out beneath the clutter. "Smells good."

"Wait until you taste them. I googled a Christmas waffle recipe," Steve said, opening the waffle iron to peek at the browning waffles. "Another two minutes," he said and closed the iron again as she walked to the table. Since moving out, Steve had taken up cooking — having the time now to spend on other things — and to her surprised, he turned out rather talented in the kitchen. Which, when she thought about, shouldn't have surprised her since the super soldier serum had enhanced his senses as well. Plus, the plethora of food available in the 21st Century — Steve explored the culinary world with gusto. "I'm not sure how we're gonna fit ice skating into today," he said with his back to her.

"We don't have to spend the entire day at the Christmas festival," she said, scrolling through her phone, skimming news articles (from several different newspapers around the world) and the latest trending hashtags on Twitter. "We can wander through the festival, drink some hot wine, eat some gingerbread and then go to the ice rink and skate before heading home." Another buzz from her phone. _Thank you! Happy two days until your birthday!_ A picture of two gifts with her name on it followed and Natasha swallowed when she saw that one had balloon wrapping paper. She clicked her phone into sleep mode when Steve came over with a plate of waffles.

"Sounds like a plan," he said, picking up his coffee cup and taking a swallow. "But since when did you know how to skate? I don't think they'd teach you something like that in the Red Room."

A twinkle glittered in her eyes, as she sipped her coffee. "And I didn't." Natasha leaned back in her chair, coffee cup in hand. "Laura taught me. My first Christmas after I got out. I spent it all with her and Clint." Christmas — and all religious holidays and traditions had been expunged during the Soviet era and certainly not celebrated in the Red Room — had been an exciting and American experience. The warm and welcoming nature of Laura and Clint, warming her better than the cup of coco in her hands or the fire in the hearth, made her first Christmas one of the few fond memories she had in her life. With the snow drifting down, light and fluffy as she skidded over the ice, all the grace and poise of the assassin and ballerina gone as she wobbled along, gripping Laura's hands — a comforting anchor — in a death grip, letting the other woman tug her across the frozen lake until she mastered it. Every morning that December, she went out on the ice with the images of the figure skaters she watched the night before in her head. It took her two weeks. "I love skating. I try to do it every winter. It's hard because sometimes the winters don't get cold enough to freeze the lakes solid enough for skating." The grey mornings, snow fresh and white with misty mountains and silvery trees all around, the slice of ice skate blades cutting the frozen lake breaking the still winter morning. It always took her away from everything, losing herself in the feel of her body in motion, the flush of warm blood in her cheeks pricked by winter's cold. "Ice rinks just don't provide the same experience."

Though he nodded, Natasha could tell he had no idea what she was talking about. Steve was nothing if not polite. "You're good right?" he asked, setting another plate of waffles in the middle of their small table. "I mean, I've seen you dance — amazing, I love watching you dance — so I figured that ice skating is kinda like dancing but on ice?" Steve returned to his post at the kitchen counter, coffee cup in hand. The waffle iron sizzled again. Warmth flooded her cheeks.

"When did you see me dance?" she stared at the light brown liquid in her cup. The swirls of cream more interesting than Steve's face. He loves watching me dance! An activity she had such a love-hate relationship with brought him joy — it made her heart swell. Maybe she could learn to love those lessons. "You been spying on me, Rogers?" The back of his neck turned red.

"Only fair, Romanoff," he replied, "considering you never left my side when Shield was defrosting me."

Oh. She wondered who told him _that_ bit of information. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She shoved more waffle into her mouth. Eating was better than thinking about seeing him half defrosted in a Shield lab — ghost white skin and bruise purple lips — or asleep in the mock-up of a WWII hospital, wondering how Fury was going to break the news to him when he woke up. A playful half smile curled on her lips. "Sleeping beauty."

The sound Steve made was a cross between a snort and a choke; he wiped his nose as he set his coffee cup down. "Did you ever think of kissing me?" he asked, blotting his shirt as she drank her coffee with all the aloof grace of a disinterested cat.

"Thought about it," she said, cutting another slice of waffles. "But I didn't wanna risk turning you into a frog."

"But you would've kissed me again, right?" He closed the gap between them, towering over her. A little thrill shot to her groin as she stared up at him. The morning light turning his hair even more golden, aureate fuzz along his cheeks, that cocksure cock of his brow and lips. Grunting, Natasha grabbed his shirt and tugged him into a kiss, tasting coffee on his lips. "Warts and slime and everythin'?" he husked, lips brushing against hers.

"I'm not a princess," she said as she pushed him away, "so it wouldn't work." A smirk. "And frogs have mucus. I know we've watched _The Princess and the Frog._ "

"You're right." He kissed her again. "You're an empress. I know my history. Romanoff was the last czar of Russia."

"Romanov is a common name in Russia," she said, shrugging. "coincidence."

"Uh-huh. If you say so, _Your Majesty_." Damn him and that smug look on his face. Throwing her coffee at him seemed like a good idea, but thought better of it. Clearly pleased with himself for getting under her skin, he went back to making more waffles. "As to your question." He shrugged, nonchalant. At least she assumed he thought it was, but she could see the tension in his back and the red tipping his ears. "Here and there. Sometimes, I'd go the gym at the Tower or at the former Shield headquarters and… well, I'd see you there, dancing." He poured batter on the iron. "I'd stop and watch for a little bit — not like I'm creep or anything — I just… the music's pretty and you're well" — the batter over flowed on the iron — "shit." He grabbed a wet cloth and mopped up the mess.

Oh Steve. Joy bubbled in her breast. The waffles tasted sweeter. The golden light of the morning brighter, like God opened up the Heavenly Gates and allowed the glory of Heaven to pour in with all its aureate brightness and warmth. Peace settling over the world in the majesty of the winter wonder. It felt like floating, gravity suddenly a figment of the imagination. "So, you don't mind skating at the Rockefeller then?" she asked, grabbing her phone and looking up a link to see how to get in.

"No, I mean, you'll have to teach me. I don't know how to skate, but it can't be that hard." Steve sat down with his own plate of waffles and dug into his breakfast. Nodding, she tapped a link, skimming the information for skating at the Rockefeller ice rink. The price was insane — Twenty-eight dollars to get in and thirteen to rent a pair of skates, and you only got to be on the rink for fifteen minutes. "Nat?"

"It's forty-one dollars, total, per person" — Steve choked on a bite of waffle — "Steve?" she stood up, going around the table to pound on his back, recalling all those tedious first aide lectures that she had to sit through during her time at Shield. "You okay?" she asked once he got himself under control. Red faced, Steve cleared his throat, eyes wide and watery.

"Forty-one dollars?" It came out in a squeak. "That's… that's insane. That's… almost my entire monthly rent before I joined the army." She arched a brow. "I mean… we can do it if you really want." He toyed with his fork, raking apart the waffle. "I don't think I could skate on a lake." A shudder passed through him.

Natasha sighed, sitting down, and glanced at her phone. "I would, but we can't" — disappointment was something she thought she had gotten used to. So much of her life was a disappointment — "there's no more tickets for today." The look of relief on Steve's face was impossible to miss, and she would be lying to herself if she didn't feel a little peeved that he was _glad_ they couldn't skate at the Rockefeller.

"Gee," he said, "I'm sorry Nat. But look at it this way. We can now spend that money on other things. I mean — we're going to a Christmas festival — we can get totally sloshed or try to at least and eat funnel cakes and churros and gingerbread." His face brightened. "I know they have horse drawn carriage tours at Central Park. We can do that instead. Lots of couples do it."

"I would love to do that" — a wicked good grin spread across her lips — "we can do the holiday light tour around the Rockefeller."

"Yeah. Drink coco and see the lights. It'll be romantic." A boyish grin splashed across his face.

"Yeah" — she sipped her coffee — "it's a hundred and fifty dollars." Steve's smile collapsed like a house of cards. Natasha found it hard not to laugh at that (though she felt a little bad).

"Oh… well, I guess we can just look up the route and walk along it…" he rubbed the back of his neck. "I never did any of this stuff as a kid. Too poor. Plus, we didn't really go to Manhattan. I mean, we did sometimes but not often. Christmas was much more communal back when I was growing up."

"I just wanted to go skating with you," she said, "I've always seen it in the Hallmark Christmas movies I'd watch with the Bartons — the guy takes the girl to the Rockefeller ice rink and they'd skate together — always looked real romantic." A wistful tsk escaped her. If her handlers could see her now: thinking about frivolous things like ice skating and having romantic wishes — they always told her love was for children; the Black Widow had no lovers, only targets. "But thanks for trying to make this a little romantic."

"Uh-huh." Steve tapped out something on his phone, a pensive frown on his face. "Well, they have cheaper tours around the park" — Steve's jaw dropped — "how can anyone justify spending a hundred dollars for a carriage ride around Central Park!"

"It's a tourist thing."

"Yeah, but _still._ " He set his phone done. "Don't be disappointed, Nat. We'll have fun at the festival, and I think there's an ice rink at Central Park, you can skate there. Plus, it's Christmas and who knows" — he smiled — "something may happen. Maybe someone will cancel or I can get a Captain America discount."

"Doubtful." Disappointment curled up in her chest. No matter how hard she tried to dislodge it, the feeling wouldn't budge. Maybe it was because she let herself be naïve for once and got her hopes up — setting all of them on this one activity — and now reality came crashing down, leaving a bitter aftermath in it's wake. "I just… really wanted" — a sigh escaped her as she ran her hand through her hair — "I really wanted to do something romantic with you. This is my first Christmas with… a—"

"Boyfriend?"

A rueful smile twisted on her lips. "I was going to say as part of a couple, but I suppose that works too. I just… I wanted to do something that… normal people do."

"I know doll." Steve took her hand and squeezed. "But there'll be other things to do. I think spending time with you on Christmas is as normal as it's gonna get. Those things you wanna do, they're tourist things like you said. We can just drink lots of hot wine and challenge random strangers in drinking us under."

The sheer stupidity of the idea caused Natasha to chuckle, leaning into him with mirth dancing in her eyes as she imagined frat boys and the cranky drunk confident that they could drink Steve under the table only to find that it was a task worthy of Sisyphus. The stall owner of the hot wine trumpeting the challenge to whomever passed by. "Oh I would love to see people try to drink you under the table," she said, kissing him. "Can you even get drunk?"

"I think with Asgardian mead I can, not sure about Earth stuff." He shrugged, polishing off the rest of the waffles and his coffee. "It'll be fun though." A swashbuckling grin and roguish twinkle sent the thrill of adventure tingling down her arms. "What else are you supposed to do at these things?"

"I don't know, I never been to one," she said as she took the dishes to the sink. Steve joined her in cleaning the kitchen up. Laughing and teasing each other as they did so, soap suds flying along with soapy water. Steve picked her up as she toweled the counters dry, running to their room with Natasha laughing in his arms. A fair amount of kissing followed, languishing in the morning bliss before they got ready. Giddiness galloped in her chest, pulling on a soft merino wool turtleneck and a heavy coat that fell to her knees. A slouchy hat and leather gloves completed her outfit. "Steve? You ready?" she called, slipping her phone into her boots. "Steve?"

"I can barely move my arms," he said as he waddled out of their bedroom in an like an artic parka and God only knew what else beneath it and looking like a bloated penguin to boot. Laughter bubbled forth. Natasha tried to stop it: biting her lip and covering her mouth, but the sight was too hilarious and she doubled over, cackling deep from her belly. Steve flushed, looking miffed. "It's cold outside." Grunting, he tried to fold his arms over his chest, the many layers prevented him — Natasha staggered to the couch, hiccupping in her mirth. "It's like twenty-nine degrees. That's cold."

"Considering you spent seventy years in a block of ice," she said as she caught her breath, "I figured it would be summer weather for you." The deep frown on his face redoubled her laugher. "Oh god, Steve!" she clutched the couch — laughing so hard she could hardly stand — wiping away her tears.

"I don't like the cold."

"Okay — Okay." Taking several deep breaths, she tugged her coat back into place and went over to him. It was hard not to snicker as she undid the thick artic parka, and the heavy wool coat, and the wind breaker. "First off," she said, helping him out of the coats. "You don't need the parka or the wind breaker. The wool coat will do fine." She held it out for him to slip on. Picking up the scarf she crocheted for him, she wrapped it around his neck. "You have to know how to layer properly. Just throwing on a bunch of clothes isn't gonna solve your problem." She tucked the ends into the coat, fluffing it a little and putting a knitted beanie on his head on the band, and a poofy pompom on top. Smiling, she ran her hands along his cheeks. "You aren't gonna shave?"

He shook his head. "Nah."

She shrugged. There was a rugged handsome quality to the scruff on his cheeks. "Anyway walking is going to warm you up." Natasha cocked her head like a curious puppy. "Maybe I should get you an ushanka, keep your ears warm."

"A what?"

"An ushanka, it's a Russian hat, with ear flaps."

"Oh." A shrug. "If you want. This works fine though." Steve grabbed the keys, stuffing them into his pocket as she slipped her boots on. "Your Majesty," he said with a bow as he opened the door. Natasha rolled her eyes, shrugging her purse over her shoulder.

"Would you stop?"

He locked the door behind them. "If it would please you, Your Majesty."

Natasha pressed the elevator button, turning to him and jabbing her finger into his chest. The child bubbling up inside her. Despite being a full seven inches shorter than him, met his gaze fearlessly. "I have you know that I'm the reigning snowball champ among the Bartons. Not even Clint can defeat me." The elevator dinged.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked as they walked into the elevator. "Cause Bucky and I were quiet the little hellions back in the day, masters of the streets. I had a good arm for being a shrimp."

"Maybe," she said, a devil-may-care grin on her face, stretching from ear to ear. The chrome doors of the elevator rumbling close as Steve pressed the star button for the first floor. "Carol said that you can get a soldier to do anything if you dare them too."

Steve tossed his head back and laughed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side. "Carol is mistaken. You dare Air Force" — he smirked — "it always works on them."

Natasha nudged his hip. "I'll make sure to tell her that." The doors rumbled open with a melodious ding, the lobby brightly decked out in big gaudy Christmas decorations, sugary sweet pop style Christmas music playing from the speakers hidden overhead. Outside, Brooklynites hurried along their way, bundled against the New England cold and ignoring the bedecked windows along their route. Smiling, she waved at Stacy the Receptionist and went out into the winter wonderland with Steve.

* * *

Christmas music blared from the speakers dotted around the festival while Santas and Mrs. Claus's danced in the street. Families that dared the crowds gripped their children tightly, while vendors hawked their wares: chestnuts, mulled wine and Christmas ale, hot coco and apple cider, gingerbread flavored funnel cakes, churros, Christmas cookies and other festival foods. A few vendors sold Christmas decorations: globe ornaments, handmade nutcrackers, tin soldiers and paper ballerinas, crocheted snowflake ornaments, and handcrafted wreathes from real pine boughs. Christmas lights hung from the tree branches, the booth eves, even wrapped around the poles of the speakers and booths. A large Christmas tree stood in the middle, decorated to the gills with lights and gaudy plastic ornaments that twinkled dully in the afternoon light. Everyone packed tight as sardines in a tin making it difficult to move. Steve swallowed, tugging the beanie down over his ears a little more and took Natasha's hand. "Kinda like the world fair back in '42," he said as they pushed their way through the crowd.

Thinking back to the World Fair — it didn't feel so packed together, people respected space, he guessed, back then —it was the first large festival he had been to. Too sick or too poor to attend the other festive events New York held, plus the Great Depression put a damper on much of it. Seeing a Christmas festival like this reminded him just how far the United States had come since his youth, that people and cities could spend their money in such — to him — frivolous fashion. Hell, he still hid money in books and cast a jaundice eye towards banks. Old habits died slow painful deaths. The smile on Natasha's face was worth the twenty-five dollar entry fee.

Snow crunched beneath their feet as they walked along the main lane, cardinals twittering safely in the high branches of the bare trees — bright red bodies hopping around, a splash of color against the frozen monochrome world. A police siren blared, a queer uncanny sound just over the Christmas music, a jarring reminder that Manhattan was only a few yards away. A person dressed up as an elf, with curly jingle shoes and candy cane striped tights, passed them by. Natasha flagged the elf down, handing over a crisp twenty dollar bill for a pair of reindeer antlers (brass jingle bells hanging from the prongs) and a Santa hat. Natasha shoved the Santa hat into her bag, "for tonight," she said with a kittenish wink, then stood on her tiptoes to put the antlers on his head.

"Really?" he asked as she adjusted the band on his head, shoving his hat into his hands. Whenever he shook his head to make sure the silly thing wouldn't fall off, the silvery mellifluous chime of jingle bells sounded. Natasha giggled, sharp and sweet.

"Don't be a Scrooge." Natasha kissed his nose. "You look cute."

"Would I still look cute with just the antlers?" he asked, holding her hand as they wove over to a booth selling mulled wine. The vendor was a portly woman with silvery hair and a cherubic face. The rich sharp scents of orange, star anise, cinnamon and cloves permeated every inch of the booth. Several large cauldrons simmered away in the back, tended by the woman's husband and two children. At the front next to the strongbox sat three rows of festively decorated thermoses. The lure of free refills with a purchase of a thermos made the decision easier. They walked away with two and directions to a booth selling roasted chestnuts.

Thermos full of mulled wine in one hand and a warm bag of chestnuts in the other, Steve felt ready to tackle the festival. They walked around, humming along to snippets of Christmas carols that penetrated the thick cacophony of the festival. They paused to listen to the carolers sing _The First Noël_ and _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_. Sampled fudge and bought gingerbread funnel cakes — dusted heartily with powder sugar. They returned every so often to the mulled wine woman to get their refills and if she wondered why neither of them were tipsy, she didn't say.

He and Natasha tried their hand at the carnival games present, losing on purpose to not give away the fact that two Avengers walked among the crowd of ordinary people. It was a liberating feeling, not having a mob trailing them, asking for autographs or to regal them with stories of their adventures. People looked at them and saw a normal couple enjoying the Christmas festival. The amount of food he ate didn't draw any odd looks (the turkey leg vendor always had a wide grin on his face when they came back for another one, trumpeting the return of his best customer).

With the afternoon shadows creeping along, they sat on a chill wooden bench to watch a Nativity play. "You know," Steve said, in a hush whisper, "I was the little drummer boy for my church's Nativity play."

"Really?" Natasha popped a chestnut into her mouth. He nodded, watching the children on stage. Bucky had been Joseph while his sister Becca had been Mary. His mother always beamed whenever he came on stage with his little drum and clapped the loudest after he finished rap-a-tat-tatting his little drum solo. The Sisters always had nice things to say about him, and by the time he was twelve, he could play various hymns and carols on the piano at the church. Another thing the bullies tormented him over. "Never figured you for the church-going type."

"Raised Irish Catholic," he said, clapping with everyone else once the play ended. "Went to Sunday school all the way up until I was seventeen? Eighteen? Can't remember when I stopped going. Was in the church choir until I hit puberty and then the Sisters taught me the piano."

"You play?"

"Used to," he said, following a less traveled path that lead to the large area of Central Park. "Don't anymore. Though I'm sure I'd remember a few hymns and carols if I sat down at a piano." Squirrels chittered at the cardinals, chasing the birds along the branches, fluffy tails stretched out behind them. Outside the festival's grounds, the gloomy weight of the city pressed down around them. Homeless people milled just at the edge of vision, nannies pushed strollers, teenagers strolled along in groups. Christmas joy seemed far away. Rays of light drifted through the towering skyscrapers, the eastern edges of the sky starting to darken. Steve glanced at his watch: two forty-five.

"Oh, the ice rink," Natasha said, stopping at a map — a trashcan beside it. "We can go. I'm sure the tickets aren't that bad."

"Why don't you go," he said, taking the antlers off and massaging his temples to alleviate the soreness from the headband. "I'll watch." Would it sound funny if he told her he feared falling through the ice and freezing again? Would she understand his desire to keep both feet on solid earth? Steve hoped she would. Natasha kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand in a comforting way. And he assumed his worry was clear on his face — or she was just that good at reading him.

They walked along the path, Christmas music drifting from the rink. It wasn't the Rockefeller, but Natasha's eyes still lit up at the sight and grinned when he paid for the fees to rent the skates and enter the rink. Holding her thermos, Steve wandered to the barrier, humming along to whatever the music playing. Families and newbies skated around the edges, in an endless loop, while more advanced skaters took to the middle. Steve's gazed honed in on Natasha.

Graceful as a swan, vermillion hair flowing over her shoulders, she glided along the ice. He wondered what she heard in her head: Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Glazunov, Koreshchenko or someone else. On the ice, the little girl she never got to be appeared: wide eyed and bright smiled. A graceful leap, a tight spiral, landing with all the cat-like grace he knew capable in her powerful supple body. People stopped skating, staring at her. The music changed from bubblegum sweet Christmas melodies to something moody and classic — _The Nutcracker_ , he thinks, the spotlight on Natasha. She looked like she was flying, blissfully unaware of the eyes on her. Steve wanted to enter that magical world of hers, where the rest of reality faded away until there was nothing but them, the music and the ice.

Swallowing, he set the thermoses down and pulled out his phone. Fumbling with the device he got it to the camera mode and started recording. Already in his head, Steve could see the alpine lake, with dark broody mountains and silvery trees standing silent sentinel, heart's blood red cardinals and shy deer watching from the safety of the frozen sylvan dell. Natasha on the ice: a focused intensity as she glided along, lost in her own magical winter wonderland; vermillion hair streaming behind her like a fiery halo. A phoenix spreading her wings during a winter storm.

The music shifted to something slow and moody, Natasha matching the shift in tempo. A mournful violin crooned through the speakers, and Steve found himself humming along to it. A little Christmas tree with ropes of strung popcorn and handmade ornaments hanging from the branches. A little collection of presents, not enough to hide the rug beneath the tree. The merry crackle of a fire in the stove as his mother wrapped him up in a thick quilt that smelled of rain and fairy magic; a bowl of baked apples in his lap. Her thick Irish accented voice washing over him as she read to him _The Night Before Christmas_ before tucking him besides the fire to keep watch for Santa Claus. Running her fingers through his hair, she would singing to him an old Irish carol. "She's lovely," a woman's voice said.

"Huh?" Steve looked to his right, a woman stood besides him. She wore a white great coat with white fur cuffs and golden buttons. Her platinum colored hair was pulled into a bun at her nape, thin wisps framing her weatherworn face. An uncanny sense of familiarity washed over him. The woman's name on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. "Ma'am?"

"Your girlfriend," she said, smiling at him in that maternally knowing way; laugh lines crinkling around her lips. "Such swan-like grace." Natasha leaned back, her spinning slowing only to accelerate as she straightened. The woman put her hand over his. Steve didn't even realized he had lowered his arms, resting his hand on the barrier's banister. The magic of the moment had swallowed him up, it seemed.

"She's a ballerina — well she knows ballet." He flushed, mentally kicking himself for divulging something like that to a complete stranger — yet… yet for some reason he felt like he knew the woman besides him. A sense of peace and security radiated off her, a feeling of home. It reminded him of being hugged by his mother. "But yeah," he said, trying to keep the conversation going. "She has that effect on people when she wants to."

"I'm happy you found her," the woman said. "I was beginning to worry." Steve frowned, flummoxed by that statement. The events in his life had shaken his belief in God — he survived seventy years in the ice, saw aliens pour forth from a hole in the sky, and was friends with a Norse god — despite it, a part of him still believed in the faith he grew up with. His mother always did say God worked in mysterious ways and would send His messengers in various guises. "Here." The woman reached into her pocket, pulling out a pair of turtledoves. "I want you to have these."

"Oh thank you" — he accepted the beautifully crafted ornaments. Turtledoves craved from white jade with gold for their beaks and jet for their eyes. A red ribbon through the tiny hole by the left wing joint. — "But I can't accept these." He looked at the birds; they gleamed with an arcane light. It felt divine.

"Don't be silly," she said, patting his shoulder. "They're a gift. Perfect for Christmas."

"Yeah." He scratched his forehead, pushing his hat almost off his head, antlers jingling in protest. "I guess."

The woman shook her head, reaching up and tugging his hat back down. The invasion of his personal space didn't perturb him in the way it should have — that uncannily familiar maternal feeling the woman radiated relaxed him. She cupped his face and he saw such hardship in her blue eyes: leaving her home for a foreign land, losing her husband to a senseless war, raising a sickly child on her own. "Ye've grown up so much," she whispered, unshed tears gleaming in her eyes, "yer da an' I are so proud o' ye Stevie."

Stevie. His mother called him Stevie. Tears pricked his eyes, clutching the turtledove ornaments tight in his hands. He missed his mother, Sarah would have loved Natasha — he knew that. Steve wished they could meet. Maybe in another lifetime they did, maybe Sarah guided Natasha into his life. For a long moment, he wished he could see his mother again and tell her everything, cry into her shoulder and listen to her kind encouraging words. To tell her how much he loved her — that he missed her. To feel her arms around his shoulders, her silent stalwart comfort supporting him when he felt as if he would break beneath the burden of the world. "Hi Steve!" an overly excited teenage voice broke through his thoughts.

Steve looked over his shoulder. "Kamala?" he frowned, as the teenager bounded over to him, wearing a thick winter coat with Natasha's red hourglass emblazoned on the front and an aviator's cap in the shape of a frog on her head. She hugged him, almost knocking him off balance. Instinctively, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. "What?" he looked around, the woman in the white great coat gone. "Did you see the woman?" Steve asked when Kamala pulled away.

"What woman?" Kamala tilted her head. "I mean, there's a lot of people here."

"There was a woman wearing a white coat and…" he looked around, feeling like meeting the woman had been a dream. The sharp prick of the turtledoves' beaks against his palm, told him it wasn't. Admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of the ornaments, he turned them over in his hand: on one wing was written _Steven_ and on the other dove's wing was the name _Natalia_. Steve swallowed, trying to find the mysterious woman in the crowd. "She was just here…" It didn't matter anyway. Steve shook his head and took a step back to take Kamala in. Smirking, he said: "See Danvers got demoted." He nodded at the coat.

Kamala flushed, tucking some hair behind her ear. "Carol… they say never meet your heroes." The girl hung her head, hugging herself. Steve had meant to talk to Carol about her behavior that day, but never got around to it and last he heard the former pilot had taken an impromptu trip off world. Nobody knew where she was and Thor seemed moodier than usual when it came to Carol. "I haven't had the guts to tell anyone of the Carol Corps message boards that she's not like what people think." Kamala's disappointment made his gut squirm.

"Carol's not normally like that," he said, nudging her. "Buck up. Once the holidays are over, she'll be back to her old self. And if not, she'll have me to answer to." He winked. Kamala giggled.

"Kamala." Natasha glided over to them. "Steve, did you see me?"

Steve slipped the ornaments into his pocket. "Of course," he said, patting her hand. "I took a video. You were amazing everyone stopped to watch." To know that everyone was — for a moment just as captivated by Natasha as he was — it made his heart swell.

"You figured out your phone?" Kamala gave him a skeptical look. "You told me that it takes you a half hour to send a text message. I could've been sending you memes and cat gifs and selfies!" He blinked, baffled at the alien jargon tumbling from Kamala's mouth.

Natasha chuckled. "I'm not that inept," he grumped. "I can adapt."

"Just takes him a bit longer kiddo," Natasha said, leaning on the barrier. "With his arthritis in his fingers, his eyesight going bad" — she shook her head dramatically; Steve rolled his eyes — "getting old sucks."

"For an old man, he looks pretty good," Kamala said. Natasha laughed.

"I have a feeling this is Gang Up on Steve Hour." He folded his arms over his chest, trying to look grumpy, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth ruined the façade. "You hungry?" he asked the girls. He was getting hungry too and he knew a nice little diner around here. One of the first things he did after waking up from the ice was re-familiarize himself with Manhattan and Brooklyn. Long lonely walks, rebuilding mental maps, taking the subway and feeling baffled by the advances in technology and all the more isolated. The world that the World Fair boasted about had become a reality — minus the flying cars, he still needed to discuss that with Tony.

"I'm famished," Kamala said.

"Lemme just get these skates off," Natasha said and glided away. Steve walked with Kamala to the administration building for the ice rink. Natasha coming out a few minutes later, wiggling her feet in her boots. "Forgot how much ill-fitting skates pinch." She linked her arm with his and he smiled. With a chuckle he swiped the antlers off his head and plopped them on hers. Natasha laughed melodious as the bells that jingled on her head. A few fat snowflakes began to fall, heralding the coming of evening snow. A Christmassy wind soughed through the bare branches and Natasha snuggled closer to him. Kamala was a few yards ahead, laughing in childish delight, snow caught in her dark hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> First in a three parter for Christmas. 
> 
> Merry Christmas! 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	24. Mistletoe and Wine

Snowflakes drifted down. Bratwurst. Laughter and carnival games. Carriage rides around bedecked Christmas lit lanes. Jingle bells breaking the icy city night. Love making that steamed the chilled windows. Moseying down the Brooklyn bridge. Admiring the frost coating the metal. Seagulls complaining of the weather. Boats croaking through the fogged river. Peace filling the air as the city exhaled a long held breath, the holidays — and year — drawing to a close.

The subway clicker-clackered along the tracks, lights zipping by like light-speed jumping fireflies. The typically crowded car felt full to bursting today. Suburban moms with last minutes gifts in department store bags, their faux designer coats bespeckled with droplets of melting snow, their eyes glued to their phones. Grumpy businesssmen in rumbled suits, unhappy about returning to kids and a piss-poor marriage. The entry-level worker just glad that they got to go home early today, lounging against the rocking bulwark of the car. The homeless bum — how did he afford a ticket or was he just a common item on the train, like fungus on a tree — sat in one corner, an empty space on either side of him.

Steve still hadn't told her where they were going. Just that it was in Manhattan and they were having dinner with Sam and Maria. A bottle of wine tucked into the crook of his arm; a white knuckle grip around the suspended handle, swaying with the pitch and roll of the car as it clicker-clackered along. He shaved that morning. "Is this… a surprise?" she asked, breaking the pregnant silence. He didn't reply. Steve's secretiveness tickled uneasily at her nerves, anxiety pricking her skin like a bug crawling down her spine. He even told her to wear something nice. "Steve?"

"Hmm?" he looked at her, a smile on his lips, nose and cheeks flushed from the putrid humid heat of the subway car. The car slowed, the sweet feminine voice announcing the destination. People got off; more got on. The doors shuddered shut and the car rattled down the tracks once more. Thrice more the car stopped, until they arrived at their destination. Steve never answered her question; she didn't ask it again.

Above ground the street was packed with people coming and going their bags bursting at the seams with last minute gifts, coffee in hands, Santas on street corners ringing their little bells, grouchy bums lurking in the corners. Fresh snow drifted down to cover the dirty grey slush on the streets, masking the rancid look of the winter-time city. Lights along the buildings flashed a myriad of colors, trying to lure last minute shoppers or spread hollow sentiments of joy and good will towards men. A hurried frantic hysteric pulse thrummed through avenues that the skyscrapers stood sentinel over. An artic wind pricked their skin, Steve leading her down a twisting turning of streets and boulevards until they entered pleasant neighborhood: Christmas lights strung along the eves of the houses, inflatable Santas and Frosties and reindeer and Christmas trees stood in the lawns, along with wire crafted angels and sleighs. Natasha blinked. Surprised. "This way," Steve said, leading her down the street. On some houses she could see the family's Christmas tree, the tv with football game on.

They reached a red brick house, an angel in yard that moved it's wings and a Nativity scene. Lights hung from the eves: pale white, blinking on and off in an alternating pattern. _Joy_ flashed in the window _peace on earth_ in the other. Wilson emblazoned on the mailbox at the end of the driveway. "Sam… has a nice house," she said, caution in her voice. Steve grinned, taking her hand as they walked up the footpath to the door. Steve rang the door bell, Natasha flicked her gaze down — _Welcome I hope you brought beer —_ the door opened.

"Merry Christmas, man," Sam said, opening the door. He wore a black sweater with gold and ruby snowflakes over a collared shirt and jeans. Steve hugged him, and she allowed Sam to hug her. "Merry Christmas Natasha."

"Likewise Sam," she said, following Steve into the cozy house. Gold tinsel garlands hung from the brick mantel. A tree — the sweet alpine scent of fir permeated the space — stood in the corner, garlands of faux holly edged the room and stair rail. Bing Crosby crooning about how he dreamed of a white Christmas came from the stereo. From the kitchen drifted a mouthwatering peppery smell, teasing and beckoning her. "What's the smell?" she asked.

"Gumbo," Sam said. "Mom! Steve and Natasha are here!" He grinned, taking their coats to hang up on the hooks by the door. "Make yourselves at home. Thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Steve said, strolling towards the kitchen like a son returning to his childhood home. Natasha unwound the scarf from her neck and pulled her hat from her head, that queasy uneasy feeling prickling along her skin. Hugging the scarf and hat close, Natasha followed Steve into the kitchen, eyes roving the interior to the house, a mental map forming in her head: egress points, house hold items that could be used for weapons, pictures hung on the walls: a smiling couple on their wedding day the bride's dark skin a beautiful contrast with her pearl white gone, the same couple holding a baby boy for their first family photo, a drooling toddler with a wild tuff of hair dressed in corduroy overalls, Sam in his Little League outfit with a big grin on his face and missing front teeth, Sam in a cap and gown for graduation, Sam in his Air Force uniform with a single chevron on his left shoulder, Steve and Sam standing in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral. Natasha's heart lodged itself in her throat, fingers gracing the edge of the frame. "Nat" — Steve poked his head out of the kitchen — "get your ass in here." A wince crossed his face a heartbeat later, the sound of skin smacking skin.

"I _will not_ tolerate that sort of language in my house, young man," said a stern matronly voice. Steve mumbled a 'yes ma'am' and an 'I'm sorry'. A smirk danced on Natasha's lips, wondering who could cow Steve Rogers into good behavior.

She turned away from the photograph and stepped into the steaming kitchen. A rice cooker burbled on a corner of the counter. A fryer sizzled at another, attended by a broad shoulders woman, her hair cropped close to her head, small golden hoops in her ears. Sam wordlessly took over the fryer as the woman turned. "Well it's about time." And walked over to Natasha, hugging her. "I'm Darlene," she said. Soft scents of lilac and jasmine wafted over her, along with the peppery earthy scent of gumbo fillet and tabasco. "For a minute there I thought Steve was telling stories again."

"Um…" Awkwardly, Natasha patted the woman's back, glancing at Steve for help. He grinned, a twinkle in his eyes and went over to Sam to discuss something with him in a conspiratorial whisper. Sam laughed, carefully dropping a dollop of yellow batter into the spitting fryer, and nudged Steve. Darlene held Natasha at arm's length looking her up and down.

"I've seen the pictures Steve drew" — Darlene took her scarf and hat — "and they're beautiful" — and hung them on the back of a set-aside chair — "but they don't even capture half of your beauty. And he's good."

Color tinted her cheeks, shyly glancing down at her socked feet. "Thank you," she said, then jerked her head at Steve, who slipped over to her side. Natasha took his hand and tugged him into the shadow-choked hall. "What the hell, Steve?" she asked in an angry hiss. Steve had the good grace to look a little guilty as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he said, sheepish. "I figured it would be like pulling teeth from a rooster if I told you we'd be having dinner with Sam's mom." She opened her mouth to rebuke but he steamrolled over her. "I know you, Nat. Clint is different, but Sam's" — Steve looked back at the kitchen — "Sam's been one of the truest friends I ever had. He's like a brother to me and I don't say that lightly." He took her hands. "He and Darlene… after what happened in DC… I needed it. You showed me your family, now I wanted you to see mine." He brushed his knuckles cross her cheek. "Please don't be mad."

Natasha let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, taking his hand and smoothing little circles over his palm. "I'm not." She looked at him. "I just wished you had told me."

Steve shrugged. "I wanted it to be a surprise." He glanced at the pictures hanging on the wall. Simple, elegant pencil portraits of Sam and his mother, captured in a nostalgic present. Natasha could see the laughter in Sam's eyes, the sorrow and guilt he still felt over Riley's death, the determination in his jaw. Darlene's smile was warm and motherly, a comforting safe haven, eyes full of love yet a lingering sorrow — a familiar ache — and she shared that same determined set of her jaw as her son. "Huh." Steve smiled. "She hung them up."

"They're beautiful," Natasha said, admiring the pictures. Steve dropped a kiss to her head before returning to the kitchen. Natasha's eyes roved over the pictures. More of Sam and Steve in Europe. Sam with his boot camp division, Sam and Riley visiting on a rare Christmas, a recent one of Sam and Maria. Darlene even hung a self portrait Steve drew of himself. Natasha touched the glass, noticing the world weary lines in Steve's face, the soldier fatigue in his eyes and pensive frown of his lips. The look of an old man in the face of a younger one. She wanted to ease his pain, take it unto herself and relieve him of his suffering. "Steve." Then she saw it. The portrait next to his. Her red hair swept to one side, tresses cascading around her neck and cheek, a glittering stud in her ear. Her lips upturned in a hidden secretive smile, a twinkle in her eyes. Yet there was a weary melancholy to her — as if she was bore a great burden. A delicate hardness. The will to endure. Beauty found among the crags of rocks, like the magnolia. Something warm and powerful settled in her chest.

"Need a breather?" a voice said. Natasha turned, seeing Maria, her dark locks cascading around her face. It occurred to Natasha that she never saw Maria with her hair down. She looked lovely. A delicate chain hung around her neck and she wore a blue cashmere sweater and jeans. "Darlene can be a little… overwhelming." Maria smiled.

"I'm just not used… Steve sprung it on me." She couldn't stop looking at the picture. The hidden beauty of her face that Steve so artfully captured. Artists always exaggerated their subjects, creating an idealized version of the person. Steve couldn't truly see her this way, could he?

"I get it," Maria said, her gaze falling on the picture of her and Sam. "My mom died a few days after I was born. Dad resented me for it." Natasha's eyes widened. Maria was almost as private as she was. Almost. "I was born on the coldest night that year. Since my father didn't love me, I decided to be just be cold. I came into this cold world anyway." A rare smile spread across Maria's face. "Meeting Sam was like the first breath of spring. Meeting Darlene was the first spring day I ever felt." Maria nudged her. "C'mon, I'll pour you a glass of wine."

"I…" Laughter echoed from the kitchen; Natasha swallowed. It was different with Clint. Clint had his own collection of ill deeds and secrets. Sam and Darlene — well — they were light and goodness and the happily ever afters in fairy tales. Natasha looked once more at the picture moved almost to tears that Steve saw such beauty in her. "I don't know."

"I get it," Maria said. "Unconditional love was so a foreign concept to me. And in the Marines… I didn't exactly find it, either — shooting people on the other hand was really cathartic. But Sam—" she smiled, wistful.

"I'm not a… this…" the fear bubbling in her, the _longing_ for the warmth of a family. "Steve's so—"

"Yeah. Sam's that too. I get it. I really do. It's like hugging the sun and keeping it for yourself. But Rogers — he adores you. I could tell that from the moment Fury assigned you two together after New York." Maria smiled. "I've always wanted this."

"Me too," she said, wiping at her eyes. "So what kind of wine does Darlene have?"

* * *

To say dinner was warm would be an understatement. The kitchen alone burst at the seams with the festive good cheer. Steve had his arm around her, that adoring smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eyes that made her heart flutter. Darlene tugged her over to the fryer, teaching her the secret of making the best hush puppies. Hot oil sizzled and spat as she added the remaining dollops of batter. Steve stealing a few, juggling the hot hush puppies in his hand.

Frank Sinatra sang about angels and holy nights. The mellifluous melodies an under current to the loud conversation. Sam and Maria swapping stories from their military days. Steve regaling everyone with his adventures with Bucky during Christmases long, long ago. Darlene telling everyone about the big neighborhood get-togethers during the holidays down in New Orleans. Wine flowed like water, gumbo and hush puppies gobbled up like a desert during a rain storm. Natasha felt the flush in her cheeks, belly full and heart bursting. If she smiled anymore her face would freeze in place — Tony would probably avoid her for the rest of his life, not that she'd mind. "You must have some good stories, Natasha," Darlene said, while the boys cleared the table and brought out the warm pies: pecan, sweet potato, pumpkin and apple. A bowl of homemade whipped cream gently thunked down next to the pies.

"I don't know if I'm gonna have room for dessert," Natasha said. "I don't think I can get up. Ate too much."

Darlene nodded. "I've done my job. If you left here hungry…" she didn't finish. Everyone laughed, Sam cutting the pies and a chorus of who wanted what went around — dollops of whipped cream plopping on top. The dining room once again filled with the happy sounds of people munching on pie, the Carpenters singing about sleigh bells jingling in the night.

Licking her lips, the lingering fatty sweetness of the cream mingling with warm spices of the pie sent her back to her first Christmas with Clint and Laura. Everything new and overwhelming, but her new friends guided her through the culture shock. "I don't have any stories," she said, address Darlene's early question. The older woman arched a brow. "I didn't have a conventional childhood." While she did release everything onto the web when she exposed Hydra for what it was, there was no way of knowing who saw her file.

"I know," Darlene said, patting her hand. "Steve told me." Natasha shot her boyfriend a look, and he had the decency to looked ashamed. "Don't be hard on him. I found your story rather inspiring."

Natasha took another bite of pie. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft. "I don't remember much of the time before the" — she stopped, glancing at Darlene and then at everyone else at the table — "before my training." It sounded better that way. Less caustic. The fork screeched along the plate, orange furrows appearing against the white background. A memory, teasingly out of reached, danced in her mind. A man with dark hair and a Hungarian handlebar mustache and pale blue eyes tossing her up into the air, a rich baritone laugh covering her flute like giggles. A woman with hair red as blood and bright as flames stroking her hair — _moya malen'kaya tsarina_ — a pair of pink ballet slippers and a lullaby half-forgotten, the tinkling of a music box on the mantle. Natasha blinked, shaking her head. It probably wasn't even a real memory. Everything before the Red Room was fuzzy missing puzzle pieces. "Though I do remember my first Christmas with Steve," she said, an amused smile on her face as she nudged his knee with hers. "We were in the Gobi Desert, tracking down a terrorist cell."

"I remember this," Steve said, taking a long swallow from his wine glass. "I recall you being constantly annoyed with me." Lips peeling back into mischievous grin. "My mom always said that girls got snappy with boys they like." He leaned towards, brushing his lips across her cheek.

"Shut up." Laughing, she pushed him away. "We got into an argument — about what I don't remember — there was a herd of camels and —"

"— and you threw a clip at them because they were blocking our view of enterance to the terrorists' hideout," Steve said.

"No," Natasha said sharply, pointing her finger at him. "You _took_ my clip and tossed it at them. I said use a rock, but you said that wasn't going to scare them." The argument coming back to her in slow waves of color. The burnt yellowish brown plateaus rising into the star studded indigo sky. Tucked into a small outcropping, buffeted by wind and cold, the shaggy Bactrian camels milling about oblivious of their bickering as they attempted to shoo the creatures away. Steve thinking his inane idea would work.

"Oh no" — Steve shook his head, that stubborn glint in his eyes appearing — " _you_ said I should use my shield. So I grabbed one of your spare clips—"

"Ha!" She jeered. "You admit it!"

"Shut up." Pink tinted his cheeks.

"Captain Genius here throws my clip at the camels, it does nothing. I tell him to go get it, he tries to argues."

"Figures," Sam said, taking a sip of his beer. Darlene sat there, amused, as she ate another slice of pecan pie. The haunting melody of the Ukrainian bell carol drifted through the room.

"I got to get it," Steve continues. "I figured when the camels saw me they'd spook but those camels — I guess — were used to people and stood their ground. The lead bull got up in my face and intimidated me—"

"Oh don't leave out the best part," Natasha said, "the bull spat at him. Right in the face. I laughed, wished I had my phone. Would've taken a video." She took a sip of her wine. "Steve managed to snatch the clip and the bull charged him. He ran for a good five miles before the camel stopped chasing us." She shrugged. "I stayed and finished the mission. Then I found him a good five miles out. First thing he asked me was if the camels had left."

"Sitwell wasn't happy with me when he found out what happened," he said, collecting the plates from Natasha, Sam and Maria. "I think Fury got a good laugh."

"Fury enjoyed that mission report," Natasha said, recalling the flight back from Mongolia. Tired. Sore. She fell asleep against Steve, her head resting on his shoulder. She had woken up once or twice during the flight, the speakers droning on about Christmas trees and candy canes. Beside her, Steve snored — his head tilted back against the seat, a whiny whistle escaping him — he held her hand, stroking his thumb along her knuckles. Sam helped Steve clear the table, the two men milling about in the kitchen.

Darlene stood up. "Sam, honey, could you put on a pot of tea?" she asked, heading to the living room. Natasha followed, looking at the other pictures Darlene had hung up on her wall and resting on the mantel. A colorful urn stood in the center. Squat and regal, delicate gold and ruby and sapphire swirls traversing the pale cream of the china. Gently, she traced a swirl. "My husband died when Sam was nine," Darlene said.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, taking a step back from the urn. The constant ache in Darlene's eyes finally given form. Her heart broke for the older woman, knowing what she had gone through — was still going through — not a day went by the she didn't miss Alexi or Nikolai. "I know what it's like to lose a husband."

Darlene clicked her tongue, take her hand and leading her to the couch. She turned the tv on, dropping into the middle of _Home Alone_. The movie played at a low murmur. Sam came over with a big mug of tea of his mother, Steve behind him with one for Natasha. Maria sat in the recliner, tapping away at her tablet. A comfortable silence settled over them, Natasha chuckling as the two thieves bumbled their way into the boy's traps. Sam and Steve left the kitchen, beer in hand and went outside. Maria disappeared upstairs. "Alone at last," Darlene said, turning the tv up a little bit. Leaning back, she sipped her tea and settled into the cushions. Natasha pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top as she watched the movie. Beneath the tv's sounds she could hear Steve and Sam laughing at something from outside. A commercial started.

"Does it get easier?" Natasha asked, looking at the older woman. She could see the beginnings of silver in her kinky hair, the deepening furrow of laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. It felt good knowing that Darlene found so much joy in life.

Darlene didn't say anything for several long moments. "No," she said, frank. "You just learn to accept the ache and ignore it." Natasha nodded. "Why?" Darlene turned up the tv. Natasha watched as the boy was reunited with his mother, the importance of family — a central theme — driven home. Tears welled in her eyes, teeth digging into her lip and the entire sordid tale of her life came tumbling out. The words flowed like a breached dam, vaguely aware of Darlene's arms around her, of her face pressed into the woman's bosom and she rubbed her back. Long denied a mother's love, Natasha took refuge in Darlene's maternally comfort. Weak, shaky, yet lighter, she wiped her eyes and glanced around the living room. Nobody had disturbed her. Darlene smiled, warm and understanding.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I normally…" she licked her lips. Darlene squeezed her shoulder.

"Don't apologize, Natalia," Darlene said and her heart fluttered with joy. "I'll always listen. Its my job as a mother." She sipped her tea. "And you found Steve. So your life isn't all bad. My husband used to tell me that Jesus Christ died for our sins, he didn't die for our suffering, because he understood that through our suffering that we would understand the true value of kindness and compassion" — she smiled — "you must get through the night to appreciate the dawn, after all." Natasha nodded. "You know," Darlene continued, "Steve came to me a few weeks ago. Just waltzed right in and ate everything. Then he went shopping to replace the food and then cleaned up the house. Wouldn't tell me what was bothering him. Care to clue me in?" Darlene asked, with an askew glance at her.

Guilt thrummed in her chest: spotting Bucky in the park, chasing after him, going to Matt's to arrange the paperwork to get Bucky out of the country. Steve had been hurt when she lied to him, told him that Pepper had needed her for a "meeting", but she didn't think much of it or what Steve had done afterwards. It explained why he didn't want the Thai food she had ordered for him. Only when he coolly gave her a fifty and the stiff way he held himself that she realized she had truly hurt him. "I ditched him," she whispered, "in Central Park. Something… something came up and I had to — he couldn't know. I didn't want to." But Bucky had been a thorn in her side since Odessa. Now he was a wedge slowly sinking between her and Steve. How many times had she come close to spitting out the truth, laying it bare for Steve to look at and analyze — just to get rid of the burdensome secret.

Darlene nodded. "I'm glad whatever happened worked itself out," she said, "Steve's like a son to me. Ever since Sam brought him over before they left for Europe back during the summer. After he came back from Europe, he stayed here for a while. Couldn't stand being in the tower as he told it. I'm protective of my boys."

"I don't want to hurt Steve," she said, "but there are some things… certain things I keep from him for his own protection." She rubbed at her face, taking a few deep breaths to calm her nerves. Exposing herself to Darlene in such a raw and intimate way — it made her skin itch. Every instinct bucked against it. Shadows and secrets had kept her alive for so long that stepping into the light in such a manner always made her queasy.

"A bit of advice." Darlene waited for her to nod. "Let him make up his own mind. Steve's a big boy, he can handle whatever these secrets are. He can protect himself. One of the things that make a relationship work is trust."

"It's not that I'm afraid he's going to get hurt… I'm afraid he's going to do something stupid. He's a self-sacrificing idiot. He's always trying to save people. And… I'm afraid that he'll just run in head first and… sometimes people don't want to be saved."

"I think everyone wants to be saved," Darlene said, "only after they paid their penance."

The next movie started, another Christmas movie about the origins of Santa Claus. The animation was old stop motion, the coloration indicative of the 60s and 70s. A childhood classic for many people. The colors flashed across the screen just like they did in the Red Room, the drugs coursing through her veins, addling her mind, blurring illusion and reality until the two seemed one and the same. She opened and closed her hands, feeling the sticky blood. "Do you think everyone deserves a second chance?" she asked, looking at Darlene. The older woman sighed, setting her empty cup on the end table and shifted to look Natasha in the eye. Darlene's hands were warm and strong, telling her history in a way her words could never do: the life of a girl growing up in the South during the Civil Rights movement, the journey of a young woman to Harlem, meeting her husband and getting married and having a son, the toils of a mother trying to raise her boy by herself. So much suffering, yet so much love.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, " she said, "even you. For a while I thought Steve was making you up. He always spoke so fondly of you, eyes lit up like fireworks on the 4th of July." She chuckled. "All the burdens he carries… just melt away when he talks about you. Truly in love. I told him if he ever broke your heart, he'd have me to answer too" — Darlene wagged her finger in front of her nose — "same goes for you missy. You have a good thing going here. Don't over think it."

Natasha smiled. Too much love and happiness in her chest to keep concealed. Stretching cat-like, she rose. "Thank you." She hugged Darlene and went outside. Sam and Steve sat on the steps, beers tucked into the snow. One or two cars drove by, a few more people — bundled in coats and hats and scarves — shuffled through the snow. Fluffy white flakes drifted lazily from the sky — a strange iron grey painted with city-light orange and yellow and Christmas light blues and greens and reds. Tilting her head back she tried to hear sleigh bells from Santa's reindeer; she chuckled and sat down next to Steve. "You boys done yet?" she asked.

Steve grinned at her, patting his lap. Smiling, she accepted, tucking her arms close to her chest. Steve shifted, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her close, hand resting on her knee. He buried his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell nice," he murmured against her skin, kissing her neck. Natasha giggled, leaning back a little to brush his bangs from his brow. Snowflakes crowned his head and clung to his eyelashes. An idyllic boyish look with rosy cheeks and flushed lips. Steve reminded her of what a younger Ded Moroz may have looked like.

"You have snowflakes on your eyelashes," she said, brushing a few stray flakes from his cheeks, leaving trails of snowmelt that sparkled in the street lights. Peace. Such a strange perfect feeling. Love. Another emotion so foreign to her yet so right. Natasha kissed him, savoring the hoppy taste of the beer on his lips, the warmth of his breath fanning her face, and the joy in his blue eyes.

"You two are so mushy," Sam said, poking Steve in his side. "It's disgusting."

A huff burst from Steve's lips as he rolled his eyes. "Shut up Wilson," she said, shifting in Steve's lap and she heard his soft grunt. "At least we respect the public decency laws." A smirk. Sam's eyes widened. "I know all about it."

"How… did my mom tell you?" Sam looked over his shoulder at the window. "She told you didn't she?" Not that he could see his mother, with the lacey curtains drawn.

"Every nauseating detail." Natasha shook her head. "No wonder Steve's the favorite son."

"Look… I can explain," Sam said, shifting to get a better look at her. "Maria and I… we got wasted. I don't even remember how we made it home. One thing led to another and we ended up in her car — or was it my car?" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Next thing I know is my mom rapping on the window — screaming my full name no less — and pointing to the trail of clothes in the snow."

"Huh" — Natasha rested her head on Steve's shoulder — "I thought you were going to say bodies."

"Maria and I stumble out — butt naked — and Old Man Vanhoff notices and gives us a sly grin and a thumbs up." Sam shook his head. "Bad enough that my mom scolded us all the way into the house. Even worse she brought Maria a robe and gave me the daily paper to erm… cover myself." Steve laughed, pressing his face into Natasha's neck. She shook her head, smiling and enjoying Sam's embarrassment and surprise when he realized Darlene didn't tell her the story and that he spilled his guts himself. Sam swore. "You played me!"

A viperish smile slipped its away across her face. It felt good using her particular set of skills for something benign as getting a friend to spill their most embarrassing secrets. It felt better too. Innocent. Harmless. "It's not that hard really. I could make Steve spill his guts too." She winked at him. "Feminine charms." And years of top tier espionage training.

"A hundred bucks," Sam said, "you get Steve to spill something embarrassing by the end of tomorrow. I'll give you a hundred bucks." He reached into the snowbank, pulling his beer free. Snow clung to the amber colored bottle. "You two are staying for Christmas right? Kinda long walk back to Brooklyn."

"But a nice walk," Steve said. "The lights, the snow" — he gestured to the city that never slept for once calm and at peace, as all things are during Christmas Eve — "perfect."

"No we're staying," she said, smacking his chest. Sam glanced between, flummoxed. It would be nice, opening presents with the Wilsons, eating pancakes, lox and bagels, and cinnamon laced coffee. She could see the next day in her mind's eye.

"Nat, we have plans."

"I know, but we're spending the night." Her tone broke no argument.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair and gave her an imploring look. "Clint." He jerked his head in the direction of Brooklyn; he finished off his beer. "Don't tell me you forgot?"

"Nope" — she smiled — "I want a real Christmas. People packed under one roof. Loud and chaotic and exciting."

"I got an idea" — Sam finished off his beer — "why don't you guys spend the night, have breakfast and then high tail it back to Brooklyn. We'll come over and open presents at your place. Your first place, your first Christmas together. It'll be good. Fun."

Jolts of excitement raced along her nerve-endings. The images leaping into her mind lightning-quick. Clint and his family, Sam and his family, her and Steve. Lila and Cooper running around the apartment screaming in delight, Darlene and Laura in the kitchen working on Christmas dinner and swapping stories of Christmases raising children and dealing with idiotic husbands. Sharp citrus tang of oranges mingling with sage and thyme and rosemary, all elevating the rich gamey aroma of the goose that roasted to perfection in the oven. Fresh baked bread warming the house as it cooled on the counter next to a variety of pies. In the corner, a Christmas stood: bright and bold with lights and ornaments on the boughs and a golden star that Lila put on top with Steve's help. Carols — old and new — dancing through the apartment, uplifting everyone's mood. "Yes." A second thought didn't even cross her mind.

Steve sighed, the corners of his mouth twisting up. "Okay" — he shrugged — "I got spare clothes here."

"Great!" Natasha rose from his lap, smiling as he refused to break contact with her, his hand around her calf. "I'll tell Darlene our plans." She stooped to kiss Steve. "We just have to be back by ten. Make sure everything is ready for Clint."

"Okay honey." Steve smiled, as she walked up the steps. Looking over her shoulder, she ducked her head to hide the blush on her face when she saw that boyish expression on his face.

"What?"

"Nothin'," he said, twirling his empty beer bottle, "just glad you're happy. That's all."

Happy. Happy didn't feel adequate in describing what she was feeling. It was beyond a _mere happy_ feeling. A melding of every positive emotion in existence wrapped into one feeling and Natasha would consider that a close comparison to what she was feeling in that moment as they planned a memorable Christmas. "I'm more than happy," she said and went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS 🎄⛄
> 
> MCU © Marvel Studios.


	25. Interlude - The Gathering Storm

Bucky peered through the dusty brittle plastic blinds. Dark forest stretched out before him, silver white moonlit snow glittering eerily. As a kid he heard tales of the Jersey Devil and other beasties that lurked in the forests at night. Steve's grandpa told stories of the Aes Sídhe and Arawn and his Wild Hunt. The war taught him that danger lurked in ever present shadows, a knife in the back or a muzzle to the skull. And he knew that he was the boogeyman that lurked in the shadows. The memories kept pressing close, squirming behind his eyes like the tentacles of Cthulhu. Bucky squinted into the darkness, trying to catch a hint of light. "I don't like this."

"Nobody asked you asshat," Frank said from his position on the couch, warming his hands by the little space heater. "Now step away before someone figures out we're here."

"I thought you said nobody would know?" he stepped away, joining Frank on the couch. The former Marine was a surly man with dark hair and darker eyes and the darkest smile. Natasha trusted him. And he trusted Natasha. So, he'll put up with Frank Castle. The man had kept him alive so far. Hydra had found him — or mercenaries hired by Hydra, neither he nor Frank saw their attackers. Bullets had rain through the thin walls of the cheap-ass motel, breaking lightbulbs and glass, tearing holes through cushions and pillows. Frank had pinned him to the ground and snuck him out of the motel. The memories struggled to get free, the programming he could never quiet keep at bay. The Soldier bucked against the shackles. Frank had sent two messages once they gotten into the alleyway. A half hour later a sleek black car showed up, a Persian woman behind the wheel. Frank and the woman didn't say anything, a silent nod between them and Frank shoved him into the car. She dropped them off a good five miles from this dump of a cabin. The snows that followed covered their tracks. "We should move," he said. "Get to Canada."

"No." Frank lifted his head. "We aren't moving. Not until Red comes. I already told her to tell her man to forward the papers to Madani. She'll push it through the proper channels."

"I don't like waiting." Frank arched a brow at that. "Never mind." He shoved his hands into his pocket, though he soon found himself running his hand up and down his left arm. The plates a cold comfort beneath his fingertips. A soft barely audible pop echoed through the darkness. The hairs on his nape pricked up, Frank shifted on the couch, blood thrummed in his ears as his muscles tensed. Cautiously, he peeked out the window again. The pop sounded again and Bucky followed the distant trail of light that blossomed into a flower of sparks. Several pops followed, blooming into a hail of sparks high above the trees. "Fireworks."

Frank grunted, glanced at his watch and clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "Happy New Year, asshat."

A little smile tugged at Bucky's lips. The last time he was with anyone on New Year's was back in 1945, surrounded by Steve, Peggy and the Commandos. They had sung Auld Lang Syne and drank scotch. "Happy New Year."

* * *

A sharp beeping jerked Carol from her dreams. A dimness pressed in around her, broken only by faint glowing lights. The beeping kept on chirping. It took her a moment to locate the sound, to switch the alarm off. The display on her gauntlet gleamed in the darkness: January 1, 2015. A sick weight settled in her gut. A new year back on Earth. Groaning, she slipped from the rack, boots making a metallic click-clunk along the deck as she headed into the main body of her ship. The one other passenger sat at the table. "Hello," Lauri-Ell said, a little smile on her face. "I like this book about Terran flowers."

Carol slid into a seat across from her half-sister. "You can keep it," she said. It surprised her to find her sister out here in the Andromeda galaxy. The turquoise, black and silver of the Kree was a trio of colors she never wanted to see again. "Are you sure about this?" she asked Lauri-Ell. "Are you sure this is—"

"Yes," Lauri-Ell said. Carol sighed, rubbing her arms. Talos was not going to be happy about this. Bad blood still bubbled hot between the Skrulls and the Kree. She can't really say she blamed either of them. Lauri-Ell looked over her shoulder, Carol followed her gaze to the dozen or so families huddled together. Blue skinned, pink skinned — all Kree. "I was taken from our mother shortly after my birth. Raised to be an officer in the Kree military on account of my blue skin. I saw… many horrors, more when I became an Accuser" — Lauri-Ell nodded to the hammer like weapon resting against the bulkhead — "I couldn't… I couldn't let such injustice stand by." She glanced at her hands. "I was an Accuser. We are supposed to serve Kree justice. But how can I serve knowing we let such injustice slide?" She shook her head. "I always felt that I should to good, strive for it. I realized that I was right when I met you."

Carol smiled. "I'm… I'm sure our mother would be proud of what you have achieved." Saying those words, Carol felt a knot in her gut tighten. "Our mother left the Kree. Maybe one day… I can take you to visit her."

"I'd like that."

"Talos… while he may not be happy that you are bringing Kree, he'll accept them once the situation has been explained." She leaned back, looking out at the vast empty blackness of space dotted with stars, and found herself missing Thor. His warmth, his laugh, the way he always was looking for the next big adventure. Even if that meant just wandering Central Park Zoo. He always found the joy in life. And that… made her smile. The ache in her heart icy sharp. Sighing, she rose her feet. "We'll be there soon. I promise," Carol said, resting her hand on Lauri-Ell's shoulder, "your people will be safe."

"Thank you," she said, a soft smile on her lips, "for the book."

Carol nodded, heading back to her rack. The door hissed closed behind her, the lights springing to life as soon as it did. Screens displaying the status of the ship's systems flashed and blinked and beeped. All normal. The autopilot taking them to planet she had hid Talos and his people on. The clock on her gauntlet chirped again. New Year's. Earth. Thor. Home. Carol sunk to the bed, hiding her face in her hands. The lies her mother told her, the secret truth of her birth and her powers. What the Kree did to her for six years. What the Kree are doing to their own people. It had taken so long for her to find a home for the Skrulls that she never had a chance to follow up on her threat to Yon-Rogg. With what she learned from Lauri-Ell it didn't seem like ending the war between Kree and Skrull would stop anything. Just put a band-aide on a larger problem. Plus, the Avengers needed her.

She swiped up on her gauntlet, holographic images of Natasha and Steve and Thor shimmered before her. Smiling and laughing and her heart panged with guilt, with longing. Steve's quiet steadfast nature, Natasha's sly wit, Thor's boisterous lust for life. Tears stung her eyes as she closed her hand. A soft meow sounded at her elbow, followed by a head butt. Looking down, she saw Goose. An intelligent glint in the Flerken's eyes. "How did you get here?" she asked, scratching the alien cat behind the ears. Goose purred, leaning into her touch. "Pepper's gonna freak when she realizes you're gone." Goose flicked his tail. "Well, at least Chewie is still on earth." Goose hopped off the bed. Opening his mouth wide, light and tentacles burst forth, something clunked onto the floor. Licking his chops, Goose looked at Carol, flicked his tail and jumped back onto the bed, purring.

On the floor, glowing like the heart of a star was the necklace Thor got her. "Goose." Carol picked it up, the center pendant warm, little solar flares arching within the elven glass. Forged by the Light elves of Alfheim, in the heart of a dying star and given to her by the Prince of Asgard himself. She held the necklace close, remembering her last night on Earth spent in Thor's arms. Carol cried.

* * *

Lightning arched, Mjölnir came down on the table, a black scorch in the shape of a model plane appeared on the table. "Odin's beard," Thor said, pushing away the melted bits of plastic into the metal trash can. The stench of burnt plastic assaulted his nose; he grabbed another box and popped it open. The pieces in three flat grids, the glue in a paper pocket, the stickers and instructions beneath the parts. Why did Midgardians have to make everything so tiny? Why did this have to be so difficult? Why did Jane insist he make this himself? It would have been so much easier if he had just gotten the dwarves to make a functioning model of the plane Carol used to fly. Jane had shot down that idea and told him that if he really wanted to prove his love to Carol, that he'd have to construct the model himself. So he bought out the local hobby store's supply of F-15 models. Currently, he had gone through about a quarter of the little plastic planes. "I'm never going to get this," he grumbled as he stared at the pieces. Killing a dragon would be easier than this.

A knock on his door caused his shoulders to tense, his hand dropping to Mjölnir's hilt. The zing of lightning arched across his knuckles. "Hello?" he asked. "Announce yourself!"

"Thor?" the door opened, the light from the hallway brighter than the firelight in his room. "It's me Pepper, JARVIS said there's smoke in here." She walked towards him. "Oh wow." The stack of model planes in their shrink-wrapped boxes was rather impressive.

Thor lowered his hammer and scooted over on the bench. "Nothing is amiss, Lady Pepper. I'm just having trouble." He gestured to the model once she sat down. Pepper didn't say anything. Maybe it's because he was working on the models or she was so used to Tony's antics that anything strange he did failed to phase her. "You Midgardians make things so tiny and delicate. This is the work for dwarves. I don't see why I can't just let them make a functioning replica." He pouted. "But Jane says I must do this with my own hands." He curled his hands into fists.

So many things he'd done with his own two hands. So many peoples and worlds pacified because his might was greater than theirs. And so many wars almost started. Odin would say he thinks with his fists more than his head. Maybe he was right. It was the lesson he learned when Odin banished him to Earth after nearly starting a war — that Loki tricked him into — with the frost giants. Seems he still needed schooling in that lesson. Maybe that's why Carol left him without a good bye. Why she discarded her necklace he'd given her. Carol was an independent spirit and had no time for a dullard prince that leapt before he looked. He always did have a weakness for bold women with loud voices.

Pepper didn't say anything. Instead she reached up and plucked a twisted chunk of melted plastic from his hair. "She's right," Pepper said, tossing the bit of plastic into the trash. "Having dwarves make a replica is nice, but Carol will appreciate it more if you made it."

"I know." He dragged a finger through the scorch mark. Everything felt easier when he could smash it with his hammer. Trolls. Loki. Dark elves. Chitarui. The problems of battle presented with clear solutions. Smash Mjölnir against it long enough until it yielded or broke. Problems of the heart and mind: humility, love, the looming burden of kingship — Mjölnir was ineffective against such problems. He had never been good at looking inward for the answers, that was Loki's forte. "I thought she loved me." He knew he loved her. Her passion, her kindness, the way she plunged head first into battle. It reminded him of the shield-maidens he fought along side with during the Viking era. The private moment they shared after the Battle of New York, when he confessed he feared his father may punish Loki with death. How the looming burden of kingship scared him. Gently, she listened and didn't judge him for his faith in Loki and assured him he would make a good king, when the time was right.

Pepper clicked her tongue. "Well," she said, pulling the box closer to her. "This model isn't going to built itself. I'll help you." She began to pop the large pieces free. "And maybe save some of this nice furniture from getting anymore melted plastic." She eyed the grey globs on the bench. "What did you—"

Thor shrugged. "Mjölnir is a hammer, albeit a war hammer but a hammer nonetheless." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought… and I had a melted puddle." He gestured to the small heap of melted plastic sitting in the shadows. Pepper shook her head.

"You got burn marks on your hands… and clothes… and you still have plastic in your hair."

"Are you not celebrating the New Year?" Thor asked, pulling out the instructions. The bits of plastic didn't bother him. He once went an entire day without realizing he had a dragon fang in his arm. "Would Stark be upset?"

"Tony's busy," she said, a dismissive tone in her words. "Besides, I have to make sure you don't burn down the tower." A teasing grin. He returned it, chuckling. "But Happy New Year Thor."

"Aye," he said, wiggling free the tiny pilot. "A Happy New Year indeed."

* * *

 _"Three… two… one… HAPPY NEW YEAR!"_ the crowd cheered as the ball dropped that the confetti bloomed as Auld Lang Syne played over the crowd. The news anchors grinned, the woman wearing glasses with the new year. "There you have in folks," she said, "it's officially 2015. Happy New—" The tv clicked off.

"Did you ever go there?" Natasha asked, tucked into Steve's side as they sat on the couch. The fairy lights strung up along the wall cast the living room in a soft glow. The tree alight in a corner, the colorful lights flashing. Her gaze fell to the turtledove ornaments. Steve had yet to tell how he acquired them. "To see the ball drop?"

"Nah." Steve shifted on the couch, pulling her closer. "Too expensive, too cold, too many people. Bucky did drag me to parties though."

"Was that when you stole that horse?" she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes. Christmas day had been filled with love and laughter. Everyone under one roof. She even managed to get everyone together for a picture in front of the decorated tree. "Or was that another New Years party?"

"No, it wasn't. We just… it was something Bucky dragged me too. We hitched a ride in the back of an ice truck, got wasted on moonshine and we didn't have any money… so we stole the horse," he said, a frown creasing his lips. "At least I think so." He rubbed his brow. "I didn't remember that night too good back then I don't remember it too good now."

"I thought you had a perfect memory?" she asked, watching the fireworks pop in the night over the river. Another year done. So much had happened: Shield being exposed as Hydra, falling in love with Steve, moving out of the tower, learning that Peggy had tried to save her and her baby, finding the graves of her parents.

"Well, things before the serum aren't as clear as things after the serum," he said, lacing their fingers together. "But I'm hopeful." Steve kissed her knuckles and stood up. "Stay here, I got you something."

"Steve—" the protest died on her lips as he padded into their bedroom. Natasha swallowed, watching the fireworks. They had seen a couple get engaged on tv, the young woman crying when her boyfriend asked her the question. They didn't even share a New Year's kiss. A trivial superstition. Maybe she should've kissed him when the clock struck midnight. Maybe he had been hoping for a New Year's kiss and she just shot his dream out of the water. Taking a deep breath, she held it for three seconds and then let it go. No, she was being silly. Steve liked his sentimentalities but he wasn't that cliché.

"Got it," he said, returning to the couch with a plop and offered her a little box tied with a red ribbon. Or maybe he was. Anxiety squirmed in her gut as she took the box. "Open it."

"Yes," she said, setting the box in her lap. He arched a brow. "To your question. My answer's yes."

"Oh good" — a cheeky grin arose on his face — "we can have sex tonight." He laughed as she smacked him in the gut. He nudged her. Huffing, she teased the ribbon loose and flipped the top off. Nestled on a soft bed of fluff, rested his dog tags, polished to a silvery sheen.

"Oh." She pulled the tags free, they clinked together. It was a melodious sound. "You're dog tags?" she tilted her head; relief eased the tension out of her body. He wasn't proposing. A part of her felt disappointed.

"Yeah? Why did you think I was gonna propose?" She looked away. "Oh shit. You did. Geez, Nat, I —"

"Steve, it's okay," she said, slipping the tags over her head. "I don't need a piece of paper to say we're together." In the end, that's all marriage was. A piece of paper saying so-and-so were bound to each other. Papers could get lost, ripped up, nullified. Whatever sanctity marriage once had had long rusted into dust. "I'm with you, that's all that matters."

"It's more than just a piece of paper Nat," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's a commitment. A promise. A promise before God" — he made a strange face — "a promise to your partner that you'll devote your life to them. It's…" he sighed. "It's more than a piece of paper that has our names on it saying we're married. It's so much more."

She shrugged. "If say so." She stroked the dog tags, feeling his presence closer to her heart. The metal tabs already warmed from her body heat. Something caught her eye in the distance across the river. A glint of light.

"If I had asked," Steve went on, unaware of what she saw, "would you have said yes?"

Razor sharp instinct hone from years of training kicked in. "Steve!" she pushed him away, diving in the opposite direction. Reflexes enhanced and trained to a fine point had her rolling into the kitchen, opening the cupboard door and grabbing a gun crouching in the darkness. Going near the windows was dangerous. The sniper could spot her, kill her. "Steve?" she hissed, trying to locate her boyfriend in the gloaming. No answer. Swallowing she leaned around the corner, trying to catch the glint again, pinpoint the source. Deafening silence pressed in around her, blood pounded in her ears, each breath steady and controlled. A hand fell on her shoulder. Reflexively, she twisted, jamming the muzzle of her gun into the person's gut.

"Hey, it's just me," Steve said, the red-white-and-blue of his shield metallic bright in the darkness. Tension uncoiled from her muscles. "What's going on?" Another flash of fireworks erupted over the river.

"Sniper." She jerked her head towards the window. "Cover me." He nodded, and they army crawled cross the floor, his shield in front of them. A soft tink of the vibrainium hitting the glass; they stopped and slowly she peeked over the rim of the shield, scanning the darkness for that telltale glint.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeat.

Three.

Nothing.

"Nat, the windows" — he was saying something, she was sure of it — "the windows are" — any minute now footsteps will be pounding down the hall, harsh angry Russian voices shouting — "bulletproof" — any minute now — "Nat, honey, the windows are bulletproof." Steve said.

"What?" Natasha shook her head, drawing the blinds and plunging the room into a deeper darkness, one the tiny fairy lights couldn't even fully penetrate. No pounding on the door, no pop-pop of a silenced weapon, only the muted pop-pop-pop of fireworks flashing over the river. "The windows are what?"

"Bulletproof. I pulled some strings with the DoD. We're fine." He shrugged. "Guess sex's off the table."

The nonchalance of the statement punched a chuckle from her that caused her to double over and lean into him. It had the desired effect, the tension in the air evaporating like water beneath the desert sun. "Yeah," she said, "sex's definitely off the table. I don't think either of us is going to sleep." Steve stood up, wiggling his shield further up his arm, before scooping her up. The darkness hid her embarrassed blush. How could she been so stupid?

"What a way to ring in the New Year." He padded to their room, setting her down on their bed before propping his shield up against the nightstand. She flicked the safety on. "Still didn't answer my question." Steve crawled into bed and didn't say anything when she slipped the pistol beneath her pillow. "You gonna be okay?" he asked, sliding his hand up and down her back. Natasha swallowed down her shame.

"Yeah," she said, rolling over to face him. "And if you want me answer your other question," she said, kissing him — there he got his New Year's kiss, maybe not exactly at midnight, but he got it nonetheless. "Ask me properly."

Steve grinned, a challenging glint in his eyes. "Happy New Year, Nat."

"Happy New Year, Steve."

* * *

This was the tenth cup of coffee he'd drunk in the last two hours. Tony had watched the ball drop on the television. It was too cold — at least that's the excuse he used — to go to Times Square as Iron Man to watch the ball drop. Besides, what was the point? It was a giant disco ball that shat confetti afterwards. People stood in the cold for hours waiting for the damn thing to drop. Worse New Year's tradition in his book. A younger more irresponsible (though Steve would challenge that idea) reveled in the drunkenness of New Year's. But that man died in a cave in Afghanistan. Tony traced the circular scar on his chest where the life saving arch reactor once sat. "JARVIS?" he called, wheeling away from the tv and back to his work desk. The holographic screen flickered to life. Data zipped across it, designs for new suits, new inventions to help utilize natural renewable energy, stock prices of Stark Industries. Information at his fingertips. A sharp choking snore ruptured the technological silence; Bruce's shoulders twitched in sleep.

"Sir?" the robotic British voice sounded. Tony blinked against the glow of the light. Bruce told him that blue light caused eye strained. He didn't care though. He'll live with the consequences later — like when he's eighty — right now he had a job to do. A planet it to protect. He _knew_ what awaited them up in the stars. And he also knew that the Avengers had no hope of defeating it. Not alone. Not without quantum leaps in technology. If only Carol would let him analyze her Kree tech, then maybe they'd have a slim fighting chance. "Where's Pep?" he tapped holographic keys. Soft thuds against the aluminum desk.

"With Thor." JARVIS paused. "Shall I summon her?"

"What's she doing with Thor?" Tony pinched a file icon, dragging it into the center of the screen. The icon flickered once before expanding. More data bloomed before his eyes. Mathematical equations, sums and figures, carts and graphs, designs.

"Building a model plane," the AI replied.

"Huh." Tony shifted through the data. "JARVIS, secure data stream." He found another folder within the technological clutter. He opened that file too, scanning the contents. Yes, he thought, if I can just get this working then everything will be alright. We'll have a fighting chance.

"Data stream secured, sir," JARVIS said. Tony nodded, leaning back and staring at the new plans. Another AI. No, a true AI. One that could operate and think independently, one that possessed _emotions_. For an AI that will shield the world against the threats from the cosmos was no good to the world if it didn't _care_ about it. That's the key. The AI would have to care. And caring was an emotion.

"Wakey, wakey, Brucey!" he called, tossing a crumbled piece of paper at Bruce's head. The paper wad smacked his skull, falling to the floor; the other man twitched. Tony's gut clenched, worried that he woke the sleeping green rage monster. Groaning, Bruce sat up, rubbing his face and picked up his glasses.

"Did I miss it?" he asked, blinking at the tv which was running through the local news: how many people got shot, how many car crashes, the usual urban doom and gloom. "I did."

"What do you think of this?" Tony swiped the data over to Bruce's computer. It took him a minute to puzzle through what he was seeing, Tony waited. Bruce _liked_ to think he was the smartest man in the world — total bullshit — so he gave Bruce fifteen minutes to work through the math. "Well?"

"You forgot to carry your one," Bruce said, sending the data back to Tony. "Other than that I think it could work, but you're more the computer science guy than I am."

Tony frowned, eyes drawn to the circled equation. How did he miss — it didn't make Bruce smarter than him. "But it could work."

Bruce shrugged. "In theory yeah. If we can figure out how to make an AI to care. But are you sure you wanna do this? Skynet ring any bells?"

"That's a movie." Besides _this_ AI won't end up like Skynet. He'd put safe guards in place to make sure the AI wouldn't turn on it's masters. A wealth of dystopian sci-fi had prepared him for this, on what not to do. How to make a fully functional AI complete with emotions. Every conceivable scenario played out on screen or page. Mistakes already made. He'll just not make them. He was Tony Stark, Iron Man, the smartest man on Earth.

"Tony…"

"Are you gonna help or not?" He asked. Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose but nodded. "Good." He rotated his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, delving into the project with a renewed sense of purpose. "I'm doing this for you, Pep," he whispered. If everything went according to his plan, by this time next year there would be no more need for Iron Man, Captain America, Captain Marvel, the Avengers. By this time next year, the world will be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU (c) Marvel Studios
> 
> Wow. What a year 2020 has been. Never did I expect I'd make it this far when I started this story back on the first of the year. In fact, if everything had gone to plan (as I had originally outlined it) this would've been the last chapter. Luckily, it's not. So I end this year on a foreboding not for our heroes. Several things that I've been setting up throughout the chapters will come to either a climax or a conclusion. Questions will be answered. Hearts will be broken. Lots of exciting things will be happening in the coming chapters and hopefully this time next year I'll be posting my final chapter of Indigo. 
> 
> I never thought this story would get this far. I honestly believed I'd give up, get frustrated with writer's block or something and I'd just throw in the towel. So I'd like to take a moment to thank my wonderful, amazing beta Asshole. Without Asshole's constant nagging, encouragement and willingness to brainstorm with me this story wouldn't be half as amazing. Thank you, Asshole, from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't have done this without you. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone that left kudos. We're 350+ and I bet by this time next year it'll double. You're support is appreciated. And I'd also like to thank everyone that left a comment(s). Whenever I'm having a shitty day or just can't seem to get into the story, I'll read the comments and remember why I'm writing this fic. I'm touched that I've touched so many people in a positive way with this story -- a story that I've been wanting to tell since at least early 2019, maybe July of 2018 -- that it's seriously gotten me through this year. Thank you so very much. 
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank myself (I know it's weird, but I do go back and read my stuff). Thank you, for telling a Romanogers/Danverson story that you always wanted to read. Thank you for putting in the blood, sweat and tears. Remember why you're writing Indigo. You're writing Indigo because you wanted to see how the MCU would have played out if Steve and Natasha's relationship in CA:TWS would have continued, how Age of Ultron would go if Captain Marvel had been present since the end of Avengers. You want to tell this story because you love these characters and want to see the disservice corrected. You're writing this story because you wanted to read something like this and found nothing. 
> 
> Now fuck off 2020. 
> 
> Happy New Year everyone. Let's hope 2021 is better.


	26. Hunting Grounds

_Down in the darkness, beneath the light, meet on the hunting grounds. Down, down in the shadows, become the night, meet on the hunting grounds. I say, let's do this anyway (let's do this anyway). One of us is going down (one of us is going down). We do this anyway on the hunting grounds. — In This Moment_

* * *

_Tick-tock. Drip-drop._ Barnes's eyes gleamed in the darkness. Sweat beading on his brow. The clock counting the passing seconds; the faucet in the cabin leaky. Sighing, Barnes shifted — a predator in a cage — and put his card down. Frank arched a brow, watching the other man's Adam's apple bob. The lamp besides the couch flickered, died. The tree by the cabin scritch-scratched the window, casting eerie shadows in the dying firelight. The moonlight fading behind the gathering clouds. Barnes played his hand. A nightmarish silhouette: part man, part machine. Not that it scared him. He's seen the inhumanity of the human creature, a half-man didn't bother him. Neither man said anything. The fire in the hearth only low embers. Another cold night. Frank drew a card, pressed his finger to his lip.

"Why… what do you owe Natalia?" Barnes asked, breaking the heavy silence. Frank looked at him played his card. "I know you want to kill me. I can see it in your eyes." He glanced at the cards in his hand. "But you don't. Because Natalia told you not to."

"You talk too much."

"You talk too little.

Frank grinned, a skull's smile or a madman's. Take your pick. "I owe her one." A garret synched around his throat, the wire cutting into his skin, a knee jammed into his kidney. A broken mirror reflecting the frozen fury in her green eyes, hair the colored of flames. _Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you?_ "Does that answer your question?" A bloody smile, a hellish laugh. _Because I'm a sin-eater. I do what you so called 'heroes' won't do._ Barnes shook his head. "Too bad," he played another card. _I do what you_ want _to do; you know it as well as I, they will only continue unless you put them in the ground._ "And you?"

Barnes made a face, didn't sat anything. Frank recognized that look. The haunted dead gaze of one too many lives on your soul. He wasn't a religious man, but he had to admit there was a certain moral taint to killing that stained a person, each in a different way. "Do you remember them?" he asked. "The people you killed?"

An interesting question. One never before asked of him. He killed as a Marine. The faces morphing into a familiar blur of the Enemy. He killed as he hunted down the fuckers that slaughtered his family. Again, their faces blurred into each other. Nothing special. Scum of the Earth, better in the ground than causing chaos above it. He shook his head, playing his card in response to Barnes' move. "No. Not those I kill," he said, "those I spare."

The half-man was silent for several long tense moments, the fireworks still popping like gunfire in the background. Damn kids. He hoped they didn't recklessly wander too close. "I remember all of them."

Frank nodded. Static crackled in his ear. He tapped against the ear piece. "Micro?" he asked, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The fireworks should've stopped by now. It was almost two in the morning. Drunk or not, revelers had to sleep sometime. More crackling static. "Micro?" Abandoning the cards, he moved on autopilot; grabbing his weapons and ammo, the flack vest adorn with the white memento mori. Barnes had a soldier's instinct too, arming himself and hunkering down for the storm.

"Frank" — static crackled — "movement" — another burst of electrical interference — "perimeter—" the comms went silent. Frank swore under his breath as he wiggled the infrared goggles down onto his head.

"Stay." He ordered, as if he was commanding a dog. Barnes gave a curt nod. Huffing, he left the half-man alone in the cabin, stalking out into the night.

* * *

Snow drifted down from the black iron clouds. The pop of fireworks long silent. The moon unable to penetrate the thick clouds, it's silvery glow absent and turning the forest into a dark vista of dark skeletal trees with white snow upon the ground. Silence hung heavy in the air, a soft breeze brushing against his cheek as he stalked through the forest, following the path he had memorized. The infrared goggles picking up any heat signatures. Deer, owls, soldiers inching through the unfamiliar woods. A reaper's grin; he delved deeper into the woods, hiking up and around to get behind the trespassers.

Often times he wondered what he did to deserve this life? What sin had he committed unwittingly to earned this damnation. In the end he realized that he made this choice long ago, bound himself to Ares or whatever foul deity that plucked the his life string to spare him time and time again. Eight grey human shapes cautiously bobbed and wove through the forest, a straight line. They had training, they were skilled. But they had never come up against someone like him. Frank trotted along, crouched low and stepping lightly to muffle his footfalls. The fresh snowfall swallowing all sound. Up the small hill, he slid down, tucking himself into a trench. A moment later the line of mercenaries appeared, muttering to themselves in hushed whispers.

The first paused, holding his fist up. The others mimicked the motion, guns swiveling about as they scouted the landscape. White puffs clouded their faces. Frank waited, muscles taunt, ready to strike as he slowly drew his knife from it's sheath. The leader — assured no enemy lurked in the shadows — signed forward. The lined moved forward; Frank crawled out of his foxhole, stalking behind the men.

Shadow silent, he grabbed the rear man by his vest with a quick viper-jerk. The man gave a startled gasp, Frank slammed his knife into the man's throat. Hot blood bubbled over his fingers, the man gurgling as he died. Frank jerked the knife to the side once — for good measure — before letting the corpse fall to the ground. He continued on, fingers closing around a flashbang. The wind buffeted his back. Frank veered right, sprinting to catch up to the mercenaries, right into their line of fire. A shout went up. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire echoed through the forest. Bullets struck trees — chips of bark flying — and the icy ground — snow erupting in silvery spray. A sharp sting jerked his arm, blood oozing hot and thick down his arm. A war cry leapt from his throat, the flashbang flying and exploded in front of the mercenaries.

Painful screams reverberated through the woods, spooking sleepy birds into flight. Frank charged into the group, tackling a man. They stumbled into the snow, rolling down the bank. His fists and knees found weak points. His knife slipped into the chinks of his armor. When the two men stopped, only one stood; the blood dripped from his fingers. Frank dashed off into the night, Valkyries at his heels.

Crouching behind a down tree, the soiled covered roots afforded protection and a brief respite. Static crackled in his ear. "Frank?"

"Yeah?" Whatever interference had been hindering his connection with Micro seemed to have been resolved. "What's the status?"

"They're fanning out. Four are heading towards the cabin, two are looking for you." Barnes could handle four men. He remember seeing the man on the news, battling Captain America, tearing up the car on the freeway. Sweat beaded around the edge of his infrared goggles. The pain in his bicep drew his thoughts. It took him a moment to calm his breathing, slow his racing heart. Natasha owed him big time for this. "Okay, they're almost on top of you." Frank's fingers slipped into the snow, seeking a rock. Finding a suitable one, he flung it into the darkness. A hollow wooden _thunk_ echoed through the woods. "Move." He was already in motion before Micro spoke.

Training took over: lining up his target, pulling the trigger with his exhale — the drill sergeant screaming in his ear as he sighted the paper target down the range, an eighteen year old know-it-all punk trying to live up to his hero's example — the first man fell, two quick jerks as the bullets tore up his body, a heavy flop into the snow. Moving again, eyes scanning for another vantage point while his target shot wildly into the darkness, having abandoned the night vision goggles. A twig snapped beneath his foot. The enemy tapped twice. Frank grunted, right shoulder injured. He licked his lips, feeling the wind rising and below it the gleeful laughter of the Keres. Another heartbeat, two more shots and the second man went down.

Frank sprinted pass them, ignoring the pain, the black blood against the snow, snowflakes alighting on lifeless faces. He'll come back for the bodies later, gather the wood and make a pyre. Gunfire in the distance. "Micro?"

"Bad news, eight more surrounding the house."

"Shit." Whomever wanted Barnes dead knew what they were doing. Digging deep, he charged for the house, breathing fanning out in puffs of steam. He tore the goggles off, allowing his eyes to adjust too the darkness. The snow had stopped, the clouds drifting away and the waxing moon's light guiding him through the darkness. Up ahead were two mercenaries. The rifle in his hands spoke: one dropped then the other.

A shout went up. Guns spoke into the darkness, missing him and hitting the trees. He knew these woods. Spent hours in them. Memorizing the twisting, turning, serpentine wending of the trails. He jumped. A rusty squeak broke the stillness, a heartbeat later a blood curling scream as the bear trap snapped shut on one of his pursuer's legs. Frank twisted, shooting from the hip — the trapped man jerked once, falling to the side. Frank paused for a moment. The guns in the distance spoke: pop-pop… pop-pop-pop. Three more lurked in the forest: one hunting him, two more joining the assault on the house. "Micro?" he asked. He needed eyes.

"Behind you."

Frank turned, dove to the side. He screamed, charging, the memento mori gleaming death-white in the moonlight. Frank and the mercenary tumbled to the ground, both men trying to get the upper hand as they grabbled in the snow. Frank grunted, slipping his knife into the man's armpit. Leaving the knife buried to the hilt, he grabbed his enemy's head and twisted — _pop_ — a wet snap echoed through the night. The body twitched as he pulled the knife free. "Micro, I need flowers." Frank sniffed, wiped his nose and disappeared into the forest.

* * *

The coppery scent of fresh blood teased loose memories Bucky rather keep buried. The _pop-pop-pop_ of semi-automatic fire strengthened them, chilling him to the bone as the memories rose like zombies. Nothing good ever came from raising the dead. Frank killed with ruthless efficiency. The way Frank worked it would appear in any other man to be a sanguinary delight. In Frank Castle it was a resignation to bitter work, a path he chose for himself long ago. He partook no joy from his efficiency in bloodletting. Almost as if he made a bargain with some black god of murder and sin. Bucky lived through hell thrice over, but Frank sent mortal fear right into his core.

"I called someone," Frank said, covered in blood and mud and gore; snowflakes melting in his black hair. A man better suited for a battlefield. Bucky closed his eyes against the surprised screams of vaporizing men, of the blue beams of the enemies' weapons, of being dragged into a lab and treated like a rat. He closed his eyes against the pain of his missing arm, the sick delight of Zola's manic grin at his newest creation. Frank slumped to the floor, gun loose in his hand, eyes ever alert. "My contact will get Red." Bucky didn't say a word. Frank frowned, leaned forward and gently pried the gun from his grip. He whimpered covering his head with his hands. "You okay Barnes?" Frank asked. Bucky gave a low whine, like a wounded beast, shaking his head. Sighing, Frank stood up and walked to the door.

The woods lay still, the silence broken by a moan or two of a dying man. The cold slipped in and coiled around his heart. Frank said Natasha was coming. Natasha always made things better. "I just wanted to see her smile," he whispered, rocking back and forth, repeating the sentence over and over as Buddhist monk would a mantra. Natasha made his hellish nightmare life brighter. From the first moment he met her — the little girl, no older than nine, stood shivering in her leotard and leggings, ballet slippers on her feet, matted red hair falling into piercing green eyes. Her breath fanned out in front of her, yet she stood statue straight. " _Natalia, ty budesh' trenirovat'sya s Soldatom. Soldat nauchit vas srazhat'sya I ubivat',_ " Taras Romanov said and patted the little girl on the head. The heavy iron door closed, the dead bolt slamming home with a weighty _thunk_ — training her to be a killer. Their sessions eased his heart, and she coaxed the man he was once out of him.

The melody was something vague, like a hazy fog he could almost remember. Natalia giggled, twelve now and almost too old for these things. Breasts beginning to bud, hips starting to widen. A woman slowly shedding her girlish chrysalis. Still he indulged her, letting her danced on his feet as he hummed a tune from a time long forgotten — a man with a trash can lid shield, a woman in a gown of blood red, a man promising flying cars — their handlers never observed these sessions, a brief welcome respite from the constant surveillance. " _Soldat!_ " Natalia hopped off his feet and ran to a corner. Gleefully, she jumped grabbing the lip of a vent and prying it open. With a soft grunt and a graceful landing, she trotted over, the rosewood box clutched in her hands. Grinning, she said, " _Uvidet'! Moya muzykal'naya shkatulka._ " The young murdress show him her most prized possession: a music box. " _Mne yego podaril moy uchitel' baleta_ " — she opened the little, a tune chimed, the little ballerina slowly twirling around, reflected in a mirror. A twisted fantasy of the lie she was being fed. Something inside him broke, tears stinging his eyes — " _Dazhe yest' balerina vnutri_ — _kak ya!_ " The innocent grin, a secret they both shared. " _Zhal', chito u neye net oruzhiya_." Natalia closed the lid, and mimed shooting imaginary targets. That broken thing inside him told him that girls shouldn't think ballerinas killed people. Closing his hand over her smaller one, he made her meet his gaze.

Swallowing thickly, he forced the words passed his lips. "My name is James." The girl blinked, reaching out and touching a lingering tear on his cheek. A soft sigh escaped him.

"James," she said, a little giggle escaping her. "My name is Natalia." Her English was grammatically correct, yet an accent lingered. Nodding, he stood, plucking the music box from her hands and returning it to the secret spot. They kept these secrets and he taught her the steps to the dance that went along with that half-remembered tune; next month he broke her arm.

"Taught her the Lindy Hop," he said, staring out into the darkness. Frank arched a brow. Cold sweat beaded along his brow. It had been months since his last wiping. Months since Steve said he was with him until the end of the line. Yet, he figured — _knew_ more like it — that Hydra had a contingency plan in case he ever rebelled from his condition or missed wiping sessions. The layers of mental manipulation peeling away yet in the back of his head he could almost here the harsh Russian code words being spoken. The Russians implemented a greater degree of mind control over him than Zola and his German scientists ever did. "Watched her grow into a woman. Watched her steal secret glances with one of the new guards. I did… _something_ to him." He stared at his mismatched hands, curling them into fists. Snippets of that brisk autumn morning played like an old movie in his head. The screaming, the shouting, the ear splitting wail of an infant. One shot. Pinkish grey brain matter splattering the cabin walls, two more to the chest — _She's mine, you bastard. Mine._ — three more shots, one each for the midwife and her daughters — only the weapon is to be kept alive. The infant wailed, the weapon screaming and straining against the two burly soldiers with him. He wrapped his cold metal fingers around the baby's neck, tiny mandrake face scrunched up as she cried. A wet cracking pop ended the harrowing wail. "I just wanted to see her smile," he said.

"Barnes…"

"She was the one good thing I had. The one good thing." He slammed his fist against his knee, trying to block out the memories: Natasha's tear-stained face when her handlers brought her in — pain he caused, a smile he broke. Guilt weighing on his soul. She never smiled again. Even upon their reunion and tryst, Natasha's smile was a mask, devoid of the joy and life it once held. Until he saw her with Steve.

"Barnes, what the hell are you rambling about?" Frank asked. The first pale light of dawn began to peek through the windows, illuminating the ruined cabin. A few dead bodies tucked away in the corners, blood black against the white camouflage. "Who did you kill?"

"I don't know" — Natasha muttering _rose rose rose_ over and over again as he guarded her during the trip back to Siberia — "I don't know why roses are important — no, rose, singular. But _why_?" he stood, tearing away the ruined blinds from the bullet shattered window. The golden light glittered along the snow, a warzone before his eyes, crimson crystals glittering along bullet holes. His handiwork — and Frank's. A black car had pulled up, a woman walking towards the door. In the distance another black car was wending it's way along the driveway. "Rose."

"Okay, hold up," Frank said, standing up. "Who are you talking about? Did you forget to give Natasha flowers?"

Bucky whined, the memory wanting to break free. "No, no," he said, the pain constricting his throat as he dragged a screaming young Natasha away from the corpse of her baby, "Rose is a name. I killed her. But who is she?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> After a whirlwind year of writing, I took a break from Indigo to refresh and recharge. The first new chapter of 2021 — if you thought things were crazy in the first half, just wait until you get a load of what I have in store for the rest of this story!
> 
> Enjoy, my lovelies! 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


	27. Corpses

_A corpse, should be left well alone. Oh, I know very well how the secrets beckon so sweetly. Only an honest death will cure you now. Liberate you from your wild curiosity. — Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower, Bloodborne_

* * *

2015 was shaping into a shitty year. Now it isn't polite to judge a year when it's only the first day, but between fighting Hydra — villainy never rests nor does it care about holidays and Avengers trying to take a break — and that panic attack last night, which she's refused to talk about, 2015 wasn't exactly off to a stellar start. Natasha swore as she dove out of the blast range of a small grenade, the popping boom sending down a cloud of frozen dirt clods and snow. The nice thing about being in combat was that she didn't have to think. Training took over and training kept her alive all this years. Static crackled in her ear. "These weapons look similar to what I dealt with back during the war," Steve said. A goon came running towards her, face obscured by the black goggles and mask, the red skull and tentacles emblazon on his chest.

"Modified with Chitarui tech," she added, throwing a small disk at the goon. The goon jolted from the zap of her Widow's sting, crumbling to the ground. A moment later a purple fletched arrow appeared in the goon's throat. The rhythm of battle took over, time marked in the bang-bang of her pistols, the hissing whine of Tony's mini rockets, the flash of lightning further down where Thor gleefully batted Hydra's goons, Hulk's roar like a cymbal crash over the cacophony.

"Too bad Carol never let me reverse engineer her Kree gauntlet," Tony said, as he zipped by over head, raining down mini rockets. Natasha scowled as he did a loop-the-loop. Man was a ham no matter what he did. Repulsors whined as Tony headshot two grunts. "Would've helped."

"You know why she wouldn't let you touch it," she said, sweeping the legs out from under her opponent. A quick slam of her electrified baton and he was down for the count. Clint jabbed an arrow into an enemy's eye socket before knocking his bow and letting the bloodied arrow fly into the throat of another. An armored truck with a machine gun attached to the roof went flying through the air, the trapped men inside screaming. Natasha raised her arm to protect her face as the car exploded upon impact.

"Hulk watch where you're throwing things!" she shouted, pointing to the smoldering wreckage of the truck. The giant green creature snorted, glowering at her. "I mean it."

"Not watching," he grunted, "only smashing." And slammed his fists on the ground to accent his point. No more armor trucks came soaring their way though.

Clint nodded to her, she gave him a little half smile as she switched the channel on her comms. "Steve? You doing okay down there?" she danced away, no movement wasted as she shot the enemies charging at her. They jerked, blood spouting as they fell to the ground. "We're almost done up here."

"Yeah, I'm—" static crackled in her ear. Heart hammering against her chest, she looked towards the bunker that lead into the underground Hydra base they were rooting out. Dust and smoke and tongues of flame billowed out from the entrance. The opening began to crumble.

Natasha ran, screaming Steve's name, trying to get his voice on the comms as she dug through the rubble. Clint at her side, tossing rocks and chunks of concrete with rusty rebar sticking out behind him. Concrete dust stuck to her tear damp cheeks, sweat beading her brow. "Cap's down guys," Clint said, "we need help." All she could think about was Steve, trapped who knows how many feet below, beneath dirt and concrete. Was he injured? Dying? _Dead_? She yelled into her comms again, trying to get him to answer. All she got in reply was static. "Thor!" Clint yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth, but the Thunder god didn't respond.

"If you two move, I'll clear a path," Tony said, hovering behind them. She shot a glare over his shoulder.

"And risk hurting Steve?" she snarled. "Are you a moron?" Clint gave her a look. Huffing, she went back to digging, she'll claw her way through the rubble even if her fingers ended up as bloody nubs. A shadow fell over her; Hulk loomed behind her. A strange look in his eyes.

"Pretty spider sad," he said, reaching out with a giant finger to gently — such a surprising gesture — wipe away a lingering tear on her cheek. "Hulk dig out Captain." The green goliath snorted, moving her aside with surprising gentleness before tossing aside giant chunks of rubble. They watched Hulk labor in silence, dust and rubble flying. Sometimes he roared, tearing free the larger and more stubborn hunks. Natasha climbed to the top of the crater, watching for a glint of shield. Hulk laughed; her heart entered her throat.

"Hulk?" she asked as the giant straightened, cradling Steve in his large hands. Dirt covered his face, helmet askew on his head and parts of his uniform bloodied and torn. He coughed as Hulk set him down, mustering a weak smile as she wrapped him up in her arms, pulling his helmet off to run her hands through his hair, surreptitiously checking for head injuries. Steve breath fanned her neck. "Thank you Hulk," she said, reaching out and laying a hand on his giant green wrist. Hulk blinked, nodded with a huff and stalked off towards the forest, shoulders hunched as if in pain. "Steve?"

"Hey." Steve gave her a dopey smile. "I'mm'kay." The words coming out slurred. "Ankle hurts" — he rested his head against her shoulder; she nuzzled his temple, breathing in his scent of dust and sweat and blood — "might be broken. Dunno." His shield slid off his arm. Clint came over, slinging his arm over his shoulder as she wiggled into position. Calmly, they stood up, Natasha springing the shield up into the air with a swift stomp on the lip, catching it with ease.

"Let's get you to the jet," she said. Clint nodded and they walked Steve across the field. "Tony, help Thor finish up and then tell him to go get Hulk or Bruce." Tony gave a nod, not complaining for once, and zoomed off to get Thor and Bruce. Steve hissed, unable to put his full weight on his right leg. "It's okay Steve. It's okay, you can lean on me or Clint."

Steve wheezed. "Nat?" They trudged along, the Quinjet growing larger as they approached it, the cargo ramp already lowered. Bruce and Thor stood by it, the scientist wrapped in Thor's bright red cape, one hand clutching his torn pants.

"Hmm?" she and Clint helped him into the Quinjet, settling him on a row of seats. She bunched her jacket up and slipped it beneath his head. "What is it?" Steve didn't say anything, just smiled and traced the curve of her jaw. The rest of the team was coming in, Tony heading to the cockpit to co-pilot with Clint.

"You had everyone worried Captain!" Thor clapped a meaty hand down on Steve's right leg, he yelped. "Except me! I knew you would be alright."

"Damn it, Thor." Steve clutched at his leg, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Natasha scowled. Thor made a face, quietly retreating to the far end of the Quinjet. The engines rumbled, Natasha leaned over Steve, bracketing him against the seats with her body as the jet sped towards it's cruising altitude.

"Uh… Natasha, can I talk to you for a minute?" Bruce asked, timid as he stood just outside her peripheral vision, clutching his iPod and headset. Steve gave her a nod. With feline grace she rose to her feet, going over to Bruce. "Uh… is Steve gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. Sprained ankle at best, broken leg at worse. We'll know more once we get back. Bed rest for a few days." She shrugged. Steve could be dramatic when it came to injuries. "What's up."

"He likes you."

Natasha let a little smile spread across her face. "I'd hope so. Otherwise living with him would've been awkward. There's only one bed in—"

Bruce shook his head. "No" — his tongue darted out to wet his lips — "he… the big guy. He _likes_ you." Bruce rubbed his face, knocking his glasses askew. Natasha blinked. "I think we can use that. I was thinking—"

The revelation flummoxed her. Sure, she knew the Hulk was intelligent but she never bothered to consider if the green goliath would form any lasting connections. He wasn't exactly the best conversationalist. "He _likes_ me?"

"— like a lullaby only you don't sing…" Bruce tilted his head. "Yeah. He likes you a lot. Why?"

She shrugged. "Just surprising. So this lullaby idea?" she asked. "He's not going to hurt Steve?" The worry crept in regardless, and she didn't want Bruce to feel bad about his — about the Hulk. Bruce glanced to the left.

"No. At least… I don't think so. He likes Steve." Bruce shifted. "But yeah, a lullaby to calm him down. Relax him… so when the Code Green is over, he can—"

"Take a nap?" a twitch of her lips. Bruce nodded. "Okay. You come up with something and when you want to test it we'll go somewhere safe and do so."

Bruce nodded and shot a glance at Thor. The god had taken up vigil by Steve's head, casually tossing his hammer from hand to hand as he regaled to Steve one of his adventures. Steve didn't seem to be listening though, but Thor also didn't seem to care. "He also wants to fight Thor." Natasha frowned.

"Why?" Then shook her head. "No that'll be good. See if this idea of yours will work." The only problem would be finding a place that would be far away from civilization so nobody would get hurt, yet large enough that a sparing match between a giant green rage monster and the Norse god of Thunder could beat out all their machoism.

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. "Apparently Thor has claimed he's the strongest Avenger, but Hulk thinks — _knows —_ he is, and wants to prove that to Thor by beating him."

Natasha smirked: see, testosterone fueled machoism. "Okay." Bruce nodded, shuffling over to a seat in the far corner and plugging himself into his iPod. Thor gave her a smile and went to bother Clint and Tony as she sat down next to Steve. "You" — scared me — "are infuriating, you know that?"

Steve grinned. "Part of my charm, doll." Natasha put some pressure on his leg and he hissed. "Sorry!"

"You should be. Scaring me like that." Natasha took a deep breath, blinking against the burn of unshed tears. These emotions, being compromised like this was exactly why the Red Room told her love is for children. Attachment lead to mistakes, something she couldn't afford. Steve touched her cheek; she flinched.

"I'm sorry, Nat," he said, pain in his eyes. Whether it was from causing her distress or his leg actually hurt him, she wasn't sure. "The guy had the place rigged to blow. Couldn't get out in time. Kept stalling me." She didn't say anything, simply laying next to him in the narrow space between his body and the wall of the jet. It wasn't the most comfortable — with her weapons poking her in odd places and Steve's utility belt pressing into her belly — yet she was close to him, could hear his heartbeat when she rested her head on his chest as she traced the star, once a silvery white now dull with dirt and grime. Right now that was all she wanted.

"I know," she said, tranquil as he ran his fingers through her hair. Their teammates ignored them or pretended not to see. An open secret. Steve dropped a kiss to her brow. Natasha hid her smile against his chest. Fist tight around the dog tags hanging from her neck, their sides cutting into her palm.

Tony came stomping over, ruining their little moment. "Hey, I radioed Hill. She's got Cho waiting in the med-wing for granny here" — he gestured to Steve — "Also, Natasha there's some lawyer's secretary waiting for you. Something about an urgent package."

An urgent package. Natasha frowned, the rush of adrenaline leaving her body and fatigue settling in. Whatever this secretary wanted it would have to wait. Though a niggling thought in her brain hissed at her, she ignored it. Tony huffed, taking the hint and went back to the cockpit.

* * *

"Definitely a sprained ankle," Dr. Cho said, pulling down the X-ray film, not sparing any of the other Avengers a glance. She did bat away the drone that hovered about her head; much to Tony's amusement. Natasha kept the smile at bay, Steve didn't need any further embarrassment — actually, yes he did — the smile came free, payback's a bitch Rogers. "A few days on bed rest and you should be good as new. Now" — she snapped on a paid of blue nitrile gloves — "on your left side, knees to your chest, and pull his pants down Romanoff."

"My pants?" Steve asked rolling onto his left side as Natasha tugged his pants off. Tony snickered as he piloted the drown closer to Steve's backside. Cho grinned. "Why do you need—"

"Rectal exam, Captain," she said, squirting some lubrication onto her fingers. "Standard for all patients over fifty-five. Also going to check your prostate while I'm in there. Just relax. This'll be over in a few minutes."

"If you find a stick," Clint said, "pull it out. Maybe he'll learn to relax once it's gone." Everyone laughed. Tony positioned the drone to get the best angle for the exam before setting it to hover, then pulled out his phone. Steve's already pink cheeks darkened.

"Is this really... does everyone have to be here?" Steve asked as Bruce hid his laugh with a cough, Clint bit his fist as he doubled over, Tony continued to grin repositioning the drone to get a better shot of Steve's ass. Natasha supposed she should feel bad for Steve — laying there with a death grip on the exam table, his cheeks redder than her hair — but she didn't. Cho grinned, bemused, her hand on Steve's butt.

"Do I need to go further, Romanoff? Or is this enough?" Cho asked, a twinkle in her eyes. "I can do the rectal exam, not the colonoscopy."

"Doc, I'm sure my insides are fine, do you _really_ need to do this?" Steve asked, never once looking away from Natasha, who patted his hand. "Or at least get everyone else out," he added, looking at everyone else. "It's humiliating."

"C'mon Steve, I still need to keep my millions," Tony said. "Be a good boy and let the nice doctor poke around your ass."

The Avengers laughed; Natasha nodded to Cho. "This is what you get for scaring the shit outta me, Rogers," she whispered as he grimaced; Natasha pecked his cheek. "Don't do it again." Cho shooed out the rest of the Avengers.

"I don't understand," Thor said, as he brought up the rear. "Why is it important to examine Steven's ass?"

"It wasn't," Clint said. "It was done to humiliate him, so he won't scare Natasha's into an early grave."

"It's called a prank Thor," Tony said. "I got a lot of great pics of Cap's face."

Natasha shook her head, bemused at the antics of her teammates. Tis should deter Steve from making reckless decisions for a while. "I want you off your feet for at least forty-eight hours, Captain," Cho said, putting on a soft ankle brace. "Sit on the couch, catch up on _American Idol,_ read a book. Just relax."

"Now that I think about it, telling him not to do anything may be a better punishment." Natasha titled her head as Steve huffed in annoyance at the instructions. "Can we at least go home?" she asked.

"I'll have Ji-Min get a wheelchair ready and call down for a car to take you two back to Brooklyn. Just make sure he stays off his feet and put ice on it to help the swelling. The serum should take care of the rest." Cho finished with the last strap and went off to get her assistant. Natasha helped Steve back into his pants.

"You didn't have to humiliate me like that," he grumped as she cinched his belt around his waist. "You know our line of work comes with certain risks." He grunted as she purposely pinched some skin. "Nat."

"Ready Captain?" Ji-Min asked, smiling as she brought up the wheelchair. Steve sighed, awkwardly sliding into the chair. Natasha didn't say anything, following behind with his shield in her hands.

Maybe she was being spiteful. Despite the good ribbing at his expense, Natasha still felt shaken to her core. The entrance crumbling over and over again in her mind's eye, the plumes of dust erupting, Hulk roaring as he dug through the rubble. The suffocating feeling of her heart in her throat when she saw the glint of his shield in the dirt — fearing the worse had come to pass. Ignoring Steve felt justified as they rode the elevator down, the grey of the city mirroring how she felt.

Any evidence of New Year's had long gone. Same with Christmas. Manhattan had shucked it's holiday festiveness and dawned a drab dreary winter gloom. The sky and buildings blurring into varying shades of grey. If one stared long enough, it became hypnotic and surreal and you could question when one began and the other ended or if anything was even real. An existential crisis waiting to happen.

A chill parking garage. Gasoline and oil the notable aromatics. Squeal of tires from the street just overhead. Tony's rows of fancy cars, gleaming like colorful beacons in the gloaming of the concrete bowels of the tower. The cold wind buffeting the three of them as they walked towards the sleek black sedan and the drive waiting for them. "Romanoff! Romanoff, wait!" the click-clack of stiletto heels echoing as someone approached them. "Romanoff — Natasha!"

Natasha turned to see Karen trotting towards them, scarf flying behind her and hair in a frizzy golden halo about her head. Cheeks pink from cold and the sudden burst of energy. "Paige," Natasha said coolly as Ji-Min and the drive — Yuri she thinks his name is — helped Steve into the sedan. "What do you want?" she asked as Karen skited to a halt in front of her. She didn't have any time for Matt's bullshit. If Matt had a problem, he was a big boy and could deal with it on his own. He didn't need anyone to hold his hand.

Karen let out a huff, adjusting her hat and scarf — now that Natasha studied the two garments the yarn was a variety of textures and colors, the stitching done as if by a blind man. "We have a situation," she said. Natasha arched a brow. "The package." She still didn't get it. "Frank told me you'd understand."

"Look, Paige," she said, hugging Steve's shield to her chest, as if the vibranium disk could widen the distance between her and the other woman. "I'm not sure what Frank's talking about. I haven't spoken to him in a while. So—"

"Don't you have your phone? I'm sure he's called you about fifty times by now," Karen said. "I went to your apartment yesterday—"

"You went to _our_ apartment?" a vein in Natasha's temple twitched. Nobody knew where they lived, except Sam and Clint. "How did you even—"

"Please" — Karen rolled her eyes — "I'm a part time PI and investigative journalist. Do you really think you can keep _that_ a secret from me?" Natasha narrowed her eyes. If men had a dick measuring contests, then women had tit measuring ones. "Look Frank said it's important. The package has been compromised. He said you'd understand what that means," she said.

Natasha hugged the shield tighter, the smooth round edges digging into her skin, while the cold wind pricked her skin. Realization settled in and freezing her guts with dread. "Thank you," she whispered, turning away from Karen and heading over to Steve. The concern look on his face almost broke her. Damn Bucky to the deepest circle of hell for putting her in this situation. Quietly, she handed Steve his shield. "Take him to Sam Wilson's place," she said to the driver, "I have to go. Something came up and —"

"Now?" Steve's face fell. "C'mon Nat, we just got back from a mission and —"

"Yes, Steve," she said, trying not to snap at him. "Now." She leaned forward, aiming to kiss him but he pulled away. It stung. He took his shield and settled it against his legs. Damn you Bucky, damn you. "I'm sorry." Steve didn't say anything. Sighing, she straightened and closed the door, watching as the sedan glided away, blue-grey exhaust billowing behind it as it merged into Manhattan traffic.

* * *

Iron lingered on the air (made sharper by the cold), bodies littered the ground, wounds lined with frozen blood. The sight made her sick, head throbbing, and bile coated the back of her tongue. Swallowing, Natasha tamped the urge to vomit down as Coulson walked towards her. Mustering a smile, she said: "You called me for this?" she gestured to the bodies. "Looks like you got this handled."

Coulson shook his head. "I didn't." She knew that. He nodded at the house. A run down hunting cabin, something that would not be unusual in a horror film. The jackhammer pain in her skull ticked up a notch. Stomach rolling like a ship in rough seas. Beneath the scent of coppery blood was the smell of shit from vacated bowels. "By the way, tell Steve thanks. Hill gave them to a while ago. Already got them framed."

Natasha nodded, rubbing her temple. A growing ache, like something trying to pry away old wood, pulsed behind her brows. A final summer wind rattled ancient wooden shutters, high snow cap mountains — a natural prison — the warmth of a baby in her arms. She followed Coulson through the snow, kicking away brass colored shells. Before them, the cabin loomed. Old wood greying with rot, sun damage and age. The tall pines with snow covered branches, standing sentinel all around — dark shapes moving in the distance, the baying of hounds and the wail of a baby, the click of a Makarov pistol's slide — her footstep made a dull _thunk_ on the first step. Groaning, she leaned over the railing and puked. "Natasha?" Coulson placed a gentle hand on her back. Angry voices, the doorframe splintering as the metal-arm man lead the black clad commandos, their dogs barking viciously in the snow outside.

The world wanted to slide sideways. She squeezed her eyes shut. Leaning over the railing felt good in a strange way. It didn't make sense. Something was wrong, something wasn't right. She _knew_ how her family died. She still could see Rose's lifeless little body. She never saw Nikolai's body but he never came back from the supply run. Yet these _flashes_ showed her something different… something grim. "It can't be true…" she coughed again, spitting out bile and finally leaning back into Coulson's touch.

"Nat?"

Three sharp bangs, Nikolai jerking — pinkish grey brain matter painting the walls — as he fell. Screaming. So much screaming. Strong hands pulling something from her breast. So much screaming. Her skull felt like a hot axe was trying to cleave it in two. What was wrong with her? "I'm fine." Bile lingered on her tongue, tears stung her eyes, she strained and walked into the cabin.

The inside mirror the outside, though with less bodies. Foam stuffing from the furniture morphed out of bullet holes, a broken lamp in one corner with the victim near by — face burned with bits of fragile glass stuck into his skin. Frank leaned against the kitchen counter talking with a woman of Middle Eastern descent. The Punisher gave her an acknowledging nod and then jerked his head to a dark corner opposite the door.

Vertigo threatened to take over; she clutched Coulson's arm in a death grip and the world slide sideways. The barking dogs, Nikolai's brains dripping down the wall with a wet squelch, Rose crying as the commandos tore her away from her arms. She struggled and bucked, screaming for her daughter, trying to break the grip of the men stronger than her. Another three bangs. The midwife, her daughter and her apprentice dropped dead. Bucky sat in the corner, blood and grime on his face, the tear tracks the only clean part. "Natalia," he said and rose. "I'm sorry."

Pain. Searing burning white hot pain split her skull asunder. Natasha vomited by the ruined couch. Nothing but bile. Gasping, trembling, she wiped her mouth. No. No. She squeezed her eyes shut. Rose screamed, tiny arms flailing about as the Winter Soldier walked up to the commando holding her. "Net… pozhaluysta, net, proshu, net." Their eyes met and for a moment she thought the man that let her dance on his feet was still in there. "James" — a mother's desperate plea — "pozhaluysta, net." The metal arm whirled, grabbing her hapless daughter around her tiny throat. The ice cold eyes of the Winter Soldier held her gaze as her daughter's neck snapped.

 _Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub._ Everything stopped. Everything stilled. Blood rushed in her ears as it all became clear, finally making sense of the image within the broken mirror. Laughter met her ears, tears dampened her cheeks. In a swift movement, she had Coulson's side arm in her hand, a gentle squeeze and the gun spoke. _Bang. Bang. Bang-bang. Bang._ The bullets bounced off Bucky's metal arm. Useless, she leapt at him, grabbing a deadly sliver of glass, blood oozing down her hand. They tumbled to the ground and she drove the glass into the meat of his shoulder. "You killed her! You killed her!" Flesh gave beneath her knuckles, the crunch of a nose, nails tearing skin. Gasping, she squeezed his throat, nails digging into Bucky's flesh until the warmth of blood touched her fingertips. "You killed my daughter" — she leaned in close like a lover, her lips brushing his ear — "and now I'm going to fucking rip your throat out."

Frank's tree trunk thick arms wrapped around her and hauled her off Bucky. He pinned her to his chest as she thrashed about. Blood coated her mouth, tears cascaded down her cheeks, throat raw from screaming every vile thing she could think of at Bucky. "Natasha, Natasha listen to me" — Frank's voice was gentle, the eye of the storm — "I get it. I know how much it hurts, believe me I _know_ exactly what you're feeling," he said. "Felt it too when I found out who pulled the trigger. Who was responsible for my family's murder."

"He killed my daughter!" She thrashed as Coulson helped Bucky to his feet, putting himself between her and her target. "He killed her!" Her back bowed as she tried to break free from Frank's imprisoning embrace.

"I know. I know Natasha. But you gotta listen to me. It's not worth it. He's not worth killing. Just like Russo wasn't worth killing. Killing Barnes… it won't change anything. Your kid'll still be dead. I know it hurts — believe me it never stops — but this… this'll hurt too. Think of Steve. Whatcha gonna tell him?"

"My baby… my baby… my little Rose…" she crumbled, the fight leaving her. Weak. She felt weak, limbs like wet noodles and bile bubbling up in the back of her throat. The gutted keen of a mournful mother echoed through the cabin. Bucky flinched. Frank held her, until Coulson gently guided her into his arms.

"Thank you," Bucky said, one hand pressed against his injured shoulder, eyes never leaving Frank. The rage flared in her again — sick twisted delight purred at the sight of his injures; Coulson held her tight. Frank snorted in disgust.

"I didn't do that to save you," he said, "I did it to save her."

* * *

Bucky followed Frank and the other man — Coulson — out of the cabin, eyes never leaving Natasha. Damn his arm hurt, but it was nothing. He'll heal. Whatever fucked-up concoction Zola pumped into his veins back in '43 helped him heal from injuries worse than this. Hell, Steve dislocated his shoulder and he was fine within a week. The two agents that came with Coulson gathered near him, talking softly as Frank walked Natasha to her car. Coulson nodded, pointing to the forest and directing them here and there. The agents nodded and went off to execute the orders. The wind ruffled his hair; he spat out blood and ran a finger along his teeth to make sure he had them all. "Well," Madani said, stopping besides him. "Looks like we better get going,"

"Huh?" he blinked, confused. Wasn't Frank supposed to take him somewhere? Get him out of the country. "Going where?"

"I pulled a few strings. Got your paperwork finished and secured your egress from the country," she said, slipping her hands into her pockets. "And I thought what Frank went through was fucked up."

Bucky grunted, watching as Frank got into Natasha's car. _I didn't do it to save you, I did it to save her._ The lights flared on like an animal awaking up. Bucky watched as the car backed up, bouncing on the uneven ground and snow, before driving away. The red tail lights burning into his memory. "We should get my shoulder patched up," he said, walking towards Madani's car.

Bucky swallowed when Madani parked the car in the empty warehouse. The bandages itched and pulled on his shoulder; he ignored it, he had worse annoyances than this. _I didn't do it to save you, I did it to save her._ "Out," she ordered and he stepped out of the car. He could hear the sounds of the city — New York he thinks — oddly muffled by the building. A sleek black sedan idled at the other end of the warehouse, a tall board shouldered man stood in the middle, large hands clasped at his waist. "He's waiting," he said. Bucky frowned, trying to place the accent. African in origin but the country or region eluded him. Madani held the file out to him.

"The new papers Murdock made for you. All stamped and officialized" — she gave him a little smile — "his employer" — she jerked her chin at the awaiting gentleman — "will help you disappear."

"Thank you " He took the file. "Nobody ever disappears, you know," he said, "someone will find me… sooner or later."

Madani shrugged, hands on her hips. "His people are good or he knows people that are at any rate." They stood awkwardly, trying to figure out if there was anything further to be said. Bucky knew there wasn't. Madani was just a cog in the plan to get him out of the country. She fulfilled her role. Sighing, she gave him a curt nod and headed towards her car. She pause to look back at him. "You know if you ever come back without Natasha's approval… Frank'll kill you."

That didn't surprise him and he already figured the Punisher would make him pay for all the lives he took — sooner or later — at any rate. Even if Steve gave him his seal of approval, Bucky doubted that'll stop Frank. "Aren't you supposed to arrest him?" he slapped the file against his palm. Madani shrugged, getting into her car and driving away. Bucky sighed, following the strange man to his. The man opened the back seat and he slipped into the darkness.

"Hello James," the person in the dark back seat said. The door _thunked_ shut and a few minutes later the car was gliding smoothly out of the warehouse. "I've been informed that you had a lot of unpleasantness happen to you."

Bucky scoffed, unpleasantness. What a load of horseshit. His life had been a living hell ever since he fell from the train. "That's putting it lightly, sir." The shadows and the tinted windows obscured the man, though he could guess he was in his late fifties and wore a fedora and a three piece suit. "Heard you can help."

"Agent Madani is a friend of a friend. I'm merely repaying a debt. I'll take you to safety, make sure nobody can find you" — he shifted, the orange street lamps illuminating his pale blue eyes — "and I'll call the debt even. Which is important in my line of work. Showing good faith, repaying debts. One cannot survive for very long without having people beholden to you in one fashion or another."

"What do you want from me?" The paper of the folder felt smooth, he could see his new alias whenever the car passed through the streetlamps: _Emil Dalca_. Every instinct told him that this man wouldn't cash in a favor later down the road for hiding him.

The man laughed. "My god, you remind me of this Turkish mercenary I worked with. Always thinking there was a catch. No my good man, you are the cargo if you will."

Cargo. Being reduced to an object — being dehumanized — it didn't surprise him. Hell, he should be used to by now. Seventy years under Hydra's control. They never saw him as a person, he was merely the _fist of Hydra_ or the asset. A weapon in human flesh. A part of him forgot what it felt like to be human. "Okay." Bucky looked at his hands, the metallic left one gleamed in the dim light. "Can I call my friend?"

"Not now. Later." The car took a turn. The lights less common here. Every city had its bad spots, places where the criminal underworld worked it's maliciousness. Bucky wasn't really paying attention. Their driver knew the route. And hell, if they were going to shoot him in the back of the head and leave him in a shallow grave — well, that would be a welcome respite. Sometimes he wished Steve had left him to die in that burning helicarrier.

"Who are you?"

The man laughed. "Don't worry about who _I am._ Just think of me as your concierge to a new life."

Right. Less he knew, the better. He gave the man a nod, settling back into the plush leather seat and watched the city go by. Classic music — Chopin, he thinks — drifted out of the speakers. His host spot on the phone briefly, and gave an exasperated sigh afterwards. "Have you ever dealt with someone that just doesn't know when to stop digging for their own good?" he asked, tweaking his blazer. "I swear." Bucky didn't say anything. "Sometimes you want to snap at them, tell them that there's a reason why you keep your secrets. It's not because you _don't_ want to tell them, but if they knew… well." The man licked his lips. "There's a reason dead men tell no tales." He quirked a smile. "Did you read _Treasure Island_ as a boy? I always thought being a pirate, looking for buried treasure, sailing the seven seas — that would be a grand adventure."

"No" — he shook his head — "I didn't read much. My best friend… he was more the reader than I was." Steve always had his nose in a book: Lovecraft, Baum, Howard, Poe, Carroll, Eddison. "Should've followed his example and read more."

"Books are a delight," his host said, "like plane tickets to far away lands, but you never have to leave your home. You should take up reading while you get comfortable with your new life."

Bucky huffed. "Maybe." He looked at the file again, gaze honing in on the fake name: _Emil Dalca._ This wasn't… he shook his head. No, there was no other way. It was better this way. A ghost should stay dead.

* * *

They drove to a private air field. Bucky, his host, and the bodyguard boarded the private jet. The luxury made him balk a little. He wondered who this man was, but knew that if he pressed for information he would receive none. It didn't matter anyway. He was nothing but cargo. Grunting, he settled down in one of the plush seats and buckled in. A few minutes later the plane took off and soon soaring over the city. His host offered him a drink, which he declined, and closed his eyes, hoping the gentle hum of the jet's engines would lull him to sleep.

Not that sleep ever offered him any peace. Too many nightmares. Too many sins. Too many innocent victims come back from the dead to plague his soul. Even on a good day, he barely slept more than two or three hours. Still, Bucky tried to find some peace in sleep, but the memory of killing Rose kept flashing behind his eyelids, playing on loop as if to torment him. After what felt like an hour — it turned out to be fifteen minutes — Bucky gave up on sleep and stared out the window, watching the lights on the wingtip flash and the silvery wisps of cloud drift over the wing. Condensation on the window beaded, zigzagging down the thick plane of plastic. His host looked at him. "You want to call your friend?" He held out a bulky satellite phone.

Bucky took the phone, the device heavier in his hand than it should be. He shouldn't call Steve. He should just run away and hide, hope Steve would stop looking for him, forget about him. A dial tone hummed loudly in the cabin and he punched in Steve's cell number and brought the phone to his ear. Gut twisting itself into knots. What should he say? Should he be honest with Steve? Tell him the truth about him and Natasha? Confess every sordid deed? Bucky bit his lip. "'lo?" Steve answered in a tired voice.

Tears pricked his eyes. "Hey punk," he said, throat tight against the emotions.

"Bucky? Bucky is that you?"

"Yeah it's me," he said, reminding himself to not squeeze the phone to hard otherwise he'll crush it, but — damn — it was good to hear Steve's voice after all these years. "It's me Steve."

"Where are you Buck? I'll come and get you. Just tell me where—"

"No, Steve," he said, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "I'm fine. I'm safe. I'm just calling to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? What do you mean goodbye?"

"Goodbye as in I'm hopefully never gonna see you again. It's better this way," he said, he bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. He promised Sarah on her death bed he'll protect Steve, no matter what. Even if it meant protecting Steve from him. "I'm not safe to be around anymore, Steve. The Winter Soldier—"  
"I can handle the Winter Soldier! Bucky… don't… please, come home, we'll figure something out. We always do. I can't… I lost you twice already, I can't—"

"You can Steve," he said, "you're a lot stronger than you think. It's better this way. To keep you and" — he glanced at his host — "Natasha safe — to keep innocent people safe — I have to disappear. Don't look for me."

"Buck…"

"Chin up Stevie," he said, trying to smile even though he know Steve couldn't see it. "Maybe someday we can catch up, reminisce about the old days." Closing his eyes, he saw the train again: Steve reaching out to him, leaning as far as he dared, trying in vain to save him. "It wasn't your fault," he said, "the train, me falling. It wasn't your fault. I knew the risk — I accepted them. If we had any hope of winning the war… it rested with you. My life… it was a small price to pay to make sure we succeeded." He closed his eyes. "Also don't blame Natasha for any of this… I… it's all my fault. I put her in the position. Just forgive her will you… for me?" Bucky ran a hand down his face, tears wetted his fingertips. It felt like a lifetime ago, when they sulked around the alleys of Brooklyn, getting into mischief, spending the last of their train money on trying to impress girls at Coney Island and hitching rides in the back of ice trucks. O, how he wished he could go back to those days when life felt less burdensome. "Goodbye Steve." He hung up before Steve could protest further, before he could say anything that may change his mind. He handed back the phone, staring out the window.

His host tucked the phone away. "Sometimes the hardest goodbyes are the most necessary," he said, sympathy in his enigmatic blue eyes. "Whiskey?"

Bucky looked out the window, picking out the stars, remembering the stories about them. How the Greek sailed the Aegean sea using them to guide their way, how the gods decorated the heavens with the greatest of heroes. "No."

* * *

Steve stared at the phone. The back light glowed for a little bit longer than dimmed until fading to black, leaving only the time and date on the face of the phone. It was nice of Sam to take him back to his apartment in Brooklyn. Sam offered to stay, but he insisted his friend go home. He could hobble around his own house, until Natasha got back.

Only Natasha hasn't come back yet. The day melted into evening which melted into night. _Don't blame Natasha,_ Bucky had said. It was hard not to blame her. To blame both of them for whatever fucked of situation Bucky dragged her into. Everything hurt: his foot, his heart. Sighing, he turned the tv on. _I Love Lucy_ popped on, the black and white casting a dim glow in the living room and he turned the volume down to a dull roar, not paying attention to whatever was going on. It felt like his entire world upturned itself into a shit pile. And here he thought waking up seventy years in the ice was hard, this was worse. One of the last connections to his past slipped through his fingers like water through sand.

A key in the lock echoed through the apartment. Steve twisted on the couch, reaching for his shield, only to remember he left it in the bedroom. Grunting, he hauled himself up, hobbling around the couch to face whomever came through to door head on. Injured or not, he wasn't defenseless. The door swung open. Natasha stood there, tucked against a man and looking worse for wear. Gutted by grief felt more apt. Eyes red rimmed, hair in disarray. The woman he saw that morning was gone, replaced by a mournful husk. "Hell," the man said, escorting Natasha into the apartment. "Never thought I see my childhood hero in his skivvies." He kicked the door shut. Steve watched him lead Natasha to the couch and plopped her down before moving to the kitchen. The light bloomed, Steve squinted against it's harsh sudden assault on his eyes. "Don't mind if I make a sandwich?"

"Who are you?" Steve asked, glancing at Natasha and their unexpected guest. Natasha stared off into the distance, blank face. Steve hobbled over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, staring at him with dead eyes. "Nat?" She pulled away from him. Sighing, Steve hobbled into the kitchen. "Is she going to be okay?"

"Think so," the stranger said. "Though, she did just find out that Red Room lied to her about how her kid died and tried to cover it up." He whistled as he made a sandwich. "Frank Castle," he added. He squirted mustard on a slice of bread. Steve frowned, watching Castle assemble the sandwich. "They mind-fucked her good with that too. Made her think the entire thing was her fault."

"I didn't know," he said, glancing back at Natasha, the light of the tv washing out her face making her appear ghost-like. "I knew how her baby died, but not that… not what they did to her after." He shook his head. He knew what the Red Room did. "I mean—"

"Not how they made her remember it?" Castle said between bites. Steve nodded. "Yeah. She's still in shock. Give her time." He reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer, popping the top off with the large knife on his hip. "You were the reason I joined the Marines."

Steve chuckled. "I was in the Army."

"Army's for pussies," Castle said, a shit-eater grin blossoming on his face. "Plus, I'm not too smart. Marines don't need no brains." Steve grinned at that, remembering the few times he met the Marines back during the war: their ballsy daringness was legendary. "But you were my hero growing up. Didn't really live up to your example, though."

"Don't think I live up to my own example," Steve said, "so it's okay." And hobbled back to the couch. Natasha didn't glance at him, though she did lean into his touch when he gently wiped a tear away. Castle didn't say anything. The tv's dull roar filled the uneasy quietness of the apartment. Castle finished his food, gave a curt goodbye, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone, with the heaviness of his thoughts pressing on his brain, Steve scooted closer to Natasha until he could wrap her up in his arms. Natasha shivered in his arms.

Bucky wanted him to forgive her, but for what? The laugh track broke the silence, drawing his attention to the tv. Natasha shifted in his arms. "I wanted—"

"I know," he said, already figuring it out. Hell, he guessed he always knew. Ditching him in the park, leaving unexpectantly from Clint's during Thanksgiving, leaving him this morning. Yeah, it was Bucky she was running to. A part of him should feel jealous, another should feel angry, yet all he felt was the lifting of a great burden. Steve dropped a kiss to her head. "It's okay Nat, it's going to be okay."

Another laugh track covered her sobs for a little bit, her nails digging into his tank-top. "I'm sorry Steve," she forced out between sobs. "I'm sorry."

He held her, rocking from side to side as the big band played the opening for another episode of _I Love Lucy_. "I know," he said, smoothing her hair. "And I'm sorry too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU © Marvel Studios
> 
> Bloodborne has inspired a lot of parts for this story. 
> 
> Save an author; leave a review.


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